


Forsaken

by dayneschiele



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: "Enemies" to lovers, Angel!Viktor, Cambion!Minami, Daemon!Otabek, Demon!JJ, Eventual Romance, Lucifer is also a thing, M/M, Nephilim!Yuri, Pixie!Phichit, Siren!Chris, Slow Burn, also the king does not refer to JJ lmao, demon!Yuuri, kind of a reincarnation fic, kind of getting into the mythical, kind of getting into the supernatural, lots of angry Demon!Yuuri in the beginning, rating may go up??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayneschiele/pseuds/dayneschiele
Summary: Banished. Cast from his own home and into the realm of humanity, and all on the basis of hearsay. Hell's own 'Prince' Eros has a lot of spiteful kin—spiteful enough to whisper rumors of fraternization with a human to Lucifer in order to have him punished. The King lives up to his infamous cruelty, stranding Yuuri on Earth with no means to come home, where he can do little more than sit and wait for an Angel or fellow Demon to vanquish him.Except there is an Angel hovering over his shoulder, has been since mere hours after his arrival, and they have done little more than observe. Wasn't it against their solemn oath to be allowing a Demon to walk the Earth so freely?





	1. Human Food, I Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the chapter title absolutely is a Rick & Morty joke
> 
> I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a theme I’ve already conjured up and used in a different fandom (It made for an entertaining enough Jerza fic when I was firing on all cylinders Fairy Tail), but I only got a few chapters in before I abandoned ship on it. I'm more or less just using the universe and have created an entirely different plot.
> 
> Also, there are few things I love more than Demons being extremely uncomfortable with the difference in temperature between Hell and Earth. Let me have this small victory.

Cold. One of the first things he had noticed about the Earthen realm was the overwhelmingly cool temperature, even though this ‘ _desert_ ’ was supposed to be one of its warmer locations. Newly human flesh recoiled at the first breath of gelid wind—a thousand years’ exposure to flame fully to blame for the present inability to function without it. Even buried beneath the thickest cloth the markets had to offer, he still found himself shuddering with the intermittent slice of cool air. The sun overhead was mocking, and he glared at it. Wasn’t it supposedly revered for its warmth? Why then, was he so _cold?_

Another thing he’d come to notice was the startling smell of _cleanliness_ that air held—no stench of death or decay, no charred flesh, no rot. It had taken him a while to get used to it, for his head to stop reeling and for his senses to re-coordinate after being overloaded. The pressure was different too, and he’d been in a state of lightheadedness for whatever length of Earthen time two moons was.

 _Ah_ , the moon. He’d known it the very first time he’d set foot on the soil, for it was something of a legend in Hell. The others mocked it for its brightness and alleged purity, but it appeared to be mocking them back from its place so much closer to the heavens than they could have ever hoped to reach. Heaven was something he’d never been so disillusioned as to hope for, not even at his birth. Hell had no graduation program, and Lucifer’s motives were the opposite of reform.

 _Lucifer._ He might have harbored feelings of respect, possibly even the closest thing to kinship that Demons were capable of feeling, at some point, but no longer. Lucifer had taken the side of another, had cast him out against all protest and better judgement, and all on the basis of hearsay. And so here he was, banished to the Earthen realm to roam as a sitting duck until his former brethren or the Angels came to dispose of him. It was cruel, really, but such was the fate of a blasphemous council member.

He was weakened on this ‘hallowed’ ground, God’s own terrarium, and this fleshly body was proof of that. It made him an easier kill. He could feel the strain of his wings beneath his skin, itching to be stretched, but such a brazen exertion of his power was likely to draw attention from many a creature he was seeking to avoid.

He’d been walking since the moment his bare feet had struck the ground. He knew from previous experiences that the state of undress his humanoid form presented itself in was entirely unwelcome by the congregations of humans, and so his first venture had been to find some clothing. After successfully draping himself in the thickest cloth he could garner, he set off in the direction of so-called warmth. That’s precisely how he’d found this place—this ocean of golden sand and utter nothingness, where the work of the sun presented itself in the form of refraction and everything was simply _bright_ and glittering.

He felt the nauseating presence long before he heard it, had been feeling it trailing him for days and wondered precisely how long it would be until it presented itself more readily. The cast of a halo overhead, which certainly did not belong to him, was nearly enough to elicit a sneer. The last thing he wanted was for the do-gooder brigade to ruin his newly acquired sense of isolation, even if it had been a nagging thought since mere hours after his arrival.

“Speak,” he rasped, and the thought presented itself that he hadn’t had anything to drink in a while. Human vessels required water, yes?

The being—an Angel, undoubtedly—fell, with all of that rumored grace, to their feet. The sand shifted around his shoes as if to part with his presence, and the distinct _flare_ of feather-light righteousness was deserving of an eye roll. Angels, always with their theatrics. Then again, they did take after God, and he had been dramatic enough to flood the planet over something as trivial as _sin_. That was hardly polite, being that Demons were the embodiment of sin.

“Words shared with a Demon are words wasted.” The other replied, voice smooth as silk and dripping with syrup.

The Demon assessed the being in his presence; his Earthen form appeared to be without flaw, flesh pale as marble with a sheath of hair threatening metallic and calculating blue eyes. Beauty in the form of raw divinity, all the same and just as mocking as the moon had been the first time he’d seen it. His wings were folded at his back, such a vibrant, nearly glowing ivory with the sun striking them as it was, and the Demon noted their length. Comparable to his own. There was something pearlescent in those feathers, something that whispered shine similar to the silver of his hair.

Damn Angels and their God-granted perfection.

“Irony being that you spoke anyhow.” His voice was dry, gone of any will to cause confrontation. After all, it wasn’t his job anymore, wasn’t required of him anymore. “Go on then, what do you want? You’d have killed me by now if it was that pressing.”

The Angel quirked a brow in challenge to that statement, but the other knew he was correct. God’s cavalry didn’t spare the lives of Demons who dared venture to Earth, and this particular presence had been following him for a suspicious length of time. Perhaps he knew of the Demon’s place in Lucifer’s cabinet, and wished to torture him until he choked out information. That would certainly be a sight, an Angel torturing a Demon.

“I want to know what you’re plotting.” Earnest as ever, even when it would probably serve them better to lie. Did they ever tire of being so garishly  _good_?

The Demon allowed a breath to pass through his lips, hints of a groan climbing his throat. “I have no interest in humans, nor do I have interest in Earth.” Quite frankly, he wanted to isolate himself for the rest of this disquieting eternity.

That admission, no matter how true, earned him a dry laugh. “You expect me to believe—”

“Believe what you wish, Angel, but I have nothing to offer but the truth. I want to be alone.” That was it, whatever ashen remnants of a soul he had spread out on a silver platter. His demeanor should speak for itself, really, with the whisper of exhaustion gracing sun-reddened skin, wings kept sheathed, and muscles completely lax. He would fight if necessary, but it wasn’t something he was deliberately seeking out.

“Then why come to Earth at all?” And there was less spite in his voice than the other might have expected there to be, less hatred than what should have been there.

The Demon grit his teeth. “Hell is no home to me any longer.” His fingers curled into the soft of his palm, dark brows drawing with the force of his hurt, his anger, his betrayal. The others, they'd hated him since his birth. They'd done this to him intentionally; remorselessly. “Banishment. Rejected by my own kin.”

 

* * *

 

Caring for a human vessel was vastly different than caring for his demonic form. He had quickly learned that long periods without sustenance created fatigue, and his productivity levels would drop rapidly. On top of that, the sun he’d mocked for its underwhelming performance had burned his skin, and some human woman with no intuition for danger had suggested some plant based topical lotion and ‘sunscreen’. He was loathe to admit that there were aspects of human culture that he found intriguing, like their organized periods of mass incapacitation that left them defenseless to enemy attacks, or how they seemed to shun the dark. That woman’s selflessness was one of those aspects.

There was one thing in particular, however, that had satisfied him in a way he’d never known anything could. The meals that humans prepared were strange, and yet remarkably palatable. In all of his previous surface endeavors, he hadn’t thought much of tasting the Earthen cuisine. Some Demons had sung praise after praise about the different foods they’d been lucky enough to try—true gluttons for the stuff—but he’d been too wary that he might never eat the dust and charcoal that was passed off as sustenance in his home again.

He sat, bundled in fabric with his head mostly shrouded, and picked at the meat on his plate. He assumed it to be some form of poultry, given its light color and how easily it came apart in strands. There was much to learn about the names of foods, but that could be dealt with at length another day. Right now, he should be conjuring a plan of how to isolate himself _within_ human civilization, being that he would need access to readily available sustenance if he wanted this vessel, and consequently himself, to survive.

He envied those who had simply spawned in Hell, and had no previous life on Earth. The power to obtain and discard vessels at will sounded quite convenient in that moment. It was explained to him that there were two types of demons—those who were born in Hell and were forced to possess humans in order to walk in the Earthen realm, and those who had been especially devious during their stint of humanity and came bearing the vessels of their previous life. It was strange to him, as he could never have imagined living amongst these strange and seemingly docile beings, with their inherent order and something as flimsy as law keeping them in line.

 

* * *

 

The first circle wasn’t one he frequented. He had colleagues who enjoyed being wrapped in the screams and the suffering and the pleas of sniveling human souls that didn’t understand what they’d done to deserve this. They would beg tirelessly for reconsideration, but there were no do-overs. They had their chance in life—serves them right for not committing wholly to the idea of sin or righteousness, for slipping through the cracks between good and evil. Just wrong enough to earn themselves a cell, and yet not so wrong as to earn themselves a role as part of the Devil’s cavalry. Their howls of agony were an irritation, and he could never find the music in them that so many others had. There was nothing beautiful in that kind of pain and longing.

Gangly, rotting arms with stretches of bared bone hung from the cells, seeking purchase in his arms, his neck, his legs; anything they could grasp. He’d made the mistake once of getting too close, of allowing fingers stripped to bone to latch around his blackened hide and swiftly tug him through the bars. The frantic babble consisted of broken pieces of a language he did not understand, but the intent was construed all the same; they were trying to break his arm, or quite possibly rip it from its socket. His shoulder had slammed into searing hot iron, and it had taken him a moment to recover from the violent jerk.

He’d grabbed hold of a blood-crusted wrist with his free hand, staring into the darkened and bloodied sockets where eyes might have been once, and declared, “ _Let go_ ,” with such firm conviction that the being had been thrown backward against the wall of their carved out hole. The sharp connection of a body that could only rot without the release of death for an eternity resounded against cavernous walls, and the other shrill harps of agony drowned out the following mutterings.

But now, he kept himself centered in the hall, staring down the terrain to a set of large iron doors. The tale of Lucifer’s fall was a detailed diptych, declaring to all who dared to observe that their leader had been defeated by the good all those years ago. God himself, though the Angels swore of his benevolence, had an affinity for mockery. The part of the doors that implied opening was welded shut with Angelic power, sealing the mass of Demons inside indefinitely.

“Do you see them?” His mentor asked, and he swallowed the comment that _of course he could see them, they were vast and he was not blind_.

“Yes,” he replied instead, tone as lifeless and dry as it ever was.

The elder did not elaborate further. He was not a man of many words, the fledgling had come to realize, and that was fine. He preferred it this way, as his own voice had never felt comfortable in his mouth. It felt light and airy compared to the booms of his peers, something innately _small_ about it that did nothing to compliment his power.

Today he would be touching the surface for the first time, and he was determined to prove his worth as a contender for the cabinet. Rising Demons were to be escorted by the elders on their first ventures to the Earthen realm. The difference in worlds was rumored to take quite the toll on a young Demon, and it wasn’t for the weak. Now was finally his time. He would prove his usefulness, prove that he could keep up with the best of them despite his inexperience. He wanted a seat next to the throne.

He paid no mind to the guards that lined the exit with wings spread as tapestries of warning. They showed him equal treatment—cold, standoffish, and permanently scowling as if their faces alone were enough to deter those foolish enough to try passing to the surface without permission. Instead, he watched the elder’s back, noting the impressive stature of folded wings and comparing them to the length of his own. He’d been rather well endowed at his incarnation, which had immediately made him the target of spite from those less fortunate. Discrimination was well and alive towards his kind; those who had once walked amongst the humans were seen to be lesser beings.

The elder paused before the massive gate, wordlessly lifting a hand to cut through the atmosphere with a blade-like talon. There, where the distance between realms was as its shortest, formed a rift that the other stepped through without hesitance. Ebony hide dematerialized, giving way to bone, and that bone soon fell away into nothing. With one last inhale of blood-drenched air, he allowed himself to follow. The sight of his own body unraveling was nothing compared to the the feeling of it. If he’d felt agony before, this was on a plane all its own. He felt the pull, like being swallowed by a black hole, and the sensation of falling swept him up before he could fully comprehend that he was nothing more than a dead soul in transit.

And all at once, his bare feet met the chill of the Earth. Cold, and so devastatingly _clean_ and _light_. It took everything in his power not to fall to his knees, to collapse against the ground and retch. The other, wearing the flesh of a man, analyzed him carefully. He fought to keep his expression clear of disorient, to cling to his own conviction rather than fall off of the face of an Earth that relentlessly turned without waiting for any man, or any beast. He stumbled, but he did not fall to a knee.

The glint in newly brown eyes gave way to the closest thing to ‘ _impressed_ ’ that he might ever see from the elder, and he reveled in silent praise. Perhaps he’d accomplished a difficult feat just by staying upright. “I understand why Lucifer favors you.” And suddenly the praise wasn’t so silent.

Lucifer, favor _him_? He wasn’t given much chance to ponder that admission, as the other was already moving in the direction of a civilization. He followed dutifully, observing the tanned flesh that replaced his hide and the way it prickled at the gelid wind of the night. Curious as it was, it did not feel personal to him at all. It appeared… weak.

“You should only venture to the surface during the night, as your bareness will cause a scene in the presence of humans. Observe how they rest now, and how you will rarely be seen until the sun rises.” The other crowed. “We’ve accounted for this, as it is a frequent spawn point, and there are garments ready.”

His gaze shifted to accommodate the expanse of more unguarded flesh. This form itself was clearly fragile, a stark contrast to the Demonic form he’d grown so accustomed to over the expanse of his lifetime. Humans—did they know how frail they truly were? Did they have any concept of such a thing?

The elder led him to a fixture at the edge of the civilization, opening the door with the lift of a single finger and guiding them both inside. True to his statement, there was an abundance of cloth that decorated the small room. A range of styles and colors were displayed, and he watched the other seize garments that were plain and black. Without any preference of his own, he chose something similar to wear, and he grabbed himself the thickest coverings his eyes fell upon.

They didn’t stay long. There were other lessons to be learned about blending amongst the humans. Again he followed, delving deeper into the paved streets of colonization, eager eyes drinking in the sight of building after building. He could _smell_ them, living humans, from inside their dwellings.

The sight of a human peering through a window raised something like alarm. Would the man staring back at him notice that something was amiss? Had the elder noticed his presence? He paused, watching the human pause in tandem. Their expression morphed, dark brows drawing in curiosity, and he watched a hand rise at the same time as he lifted his own.

The elder had halted in his advance as well, turning to observe the encounter with curious eyes. The fledgling took a brave step forward, and the human seemed to move closer as well. The Demon’s head tipped, and so did the human’s. Was this mockery? Would a man dare stare its death in the face with such unbridled bravado?

He scrutinized the image, feet drawing him ever closer until realization dawned. It was his own image he was staring into, eyes of honey washing over grainy hickory, and dark hair falling loosely against his forehead. This was his Earthen form—so small, so convincingly human. He watched his own hand float to the flesh of his face, fingertips skimming over soft skin, and it was all so remarkably _peculiar_.

Until his image flashed, and blue frames outlined his own eyes. He startled, inhaling a gasp as the world around him turned to a tilting vignette. He felt his own eyes blown wide, the breath escaping his lungs as a knee drove itself into the dirt, and he felt himself losing the fight against the spin of the Earth.

He saw his own knees, decorated in smooth black cloth that looked nothing like what he’d dressed himself with, and he watched amaranth drip from his mouth in strings. An upward glance brought the visage of a newcomer, fingers pressed beneath his chin to tip his head upward. A human wearing a smirk so devious that he’d been inclined to think them one of his own kin, and he heard them speaking. This language wasn’t the one he spoke in most frequently, but he understood it all the same. Why did he understand it?

“ _You’ve met your match, Katsuki._ ” They said, and he recognized the name. They were speaking of him, talking down to him like he was something lesser. “ _Make it easy on yourself and you won’t have to suffer_.”

He pulled at his hands, but they were restricted by something. His feet refused to move at his command. What was this? How had he gotten here?

“ _Yuuri…_ ”

There was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him. His body moved without resistance, like it weighed nothing at all. He inhaled, that same stinging cleanliness of the Earthen atmosphere filled his lungs, and he released it like it was something arduous. The face before him began to melt, blurring away to reveal that of a different man as he felt his form jar again. He blinked, and blinked again, until he was staring into the clear visage of the elder.

“Yuuri.”

He inhaled, and the scene was put back together in the way it had been before. The elder regarded him with something akin to worry, his lips pressed in a firm line as Yuuri did everything to recover the air he’d forced from his chest. The ice of this realm crept back in to grace his flesh.

“Who was that?” He demanded, attempting to push himself to his feet with little productive result. This form was defying him. It hugged the ground like it was in possession of the right to do so.

The other drug him to stand unsteadily on his feet. “I’ve seen this happen, but never so violently.”

His breathing was still haggard, chest rising and falling with the force of each labored breath. “What?” He rasped.

“Yuuri,” the other started, and it was a warning that he would surely heed. “Destruction comes to those who stargaze. Avoid your Earthen image. This is not disputable.”

 

* * *

 

The thought of parading around as a human might was nothing short of nauseating. Their lives were so _boring_ , so constricted by their collective idea of morality. Though the thought presented itself that he was well and truly trapped, and there were few options. He did not want to settle into a location—going against his better judgement of living nomadically would make him a sitting duck, and the heavenly wings at his back were proof enough that he was already so easily found by the enemy.

Speaking of hovering halos, he wondered why the Angel had chosen to follow him rather than simply initiate battle or leave him alone. It was bothersome to have the stench of God’s own constantly keeping his senses on alert. He tossed a glare over his shoulder, letting the other know that he was still very much aware of his lingering presence. It was peculiar. Wasn’t it against the Angel’s solemn vow to allow him freedom of movement, especially within an area populated with the humans they so adored?

“I will not leave, if that’s what you’re going to ask.” The Angel spoke, and Yuuri thought it odd that his voice rang with the accent of a human foreign to these lands. What country was that again?

“Why haven’t you disposed of me, oh _Holy One_?” He was mocking the other, probably pressing his own luck, but his disposition retained its qualities of curious irritation.

“I could ask the same of you.” The Angel replied, and it did little to soothe Yuuri’s annoyance. He was deflecting, bringing up implied questions that the Demon had already answered.

He didn’t care much for repeating himself. “I’ve told you I have no interest in placing myself in compromising positions.”

“You’ve also said you have no interest in humans, and yet you loiter in their lands.” The other replied, smooth and almost teasing. Was he coaxing him to act?

Yuuri felt his reasons for obtaining sustenance were perfectly self explanatory. This vessel required continuous upkeep, surely the other knew from experience, and he’d carelessly pushed himself to the point of fatigue before searching for something to remedy his bodily aches. He didn’t grace the Angel’s redundant remarks with a response, simply grunting and returning to his meal.

Apparently, their conversation had not met its end, because the Angel chose to speak again. “Your kind are masterfully deceptive, yes? It would be careless of me not to observe you.”

“One could argue that you’re careless for letting me live at all.” He remarked, placing the eating utensil down to wet his throat with water.

The other ignored his comment gracefully, and he heard the footsteps padding along the pavement before the other came to sit at the bench across from him. Impossibly blonde hair glinted with notes of mercury, and with such little distance between them, the Demon could see each finely woven turquoise thread stretching from pitch irises. Angels, such grotesquely beautiful creatures. Yuuri slammed the plastic bottle down harder than necessary, but the other didn’t seem to mind. A chin resembling porcelain rested within a palm, and dripping crystalline regarded him with something much too close to mischief for an Angel such as himself to be wearing.

“What should I call the Demonic thorn in my side?” He asked, voice holding a surprisingly neutral lilt.

The Demon raised a brow, questioning. What good was a name? “Yuuri.” He provided simply.

Something in those blue eyes softened, and it was sickening. Did this Angel have no remorse for his blasphemy? Surely his God would smite him if he continued to grace him with such piteous glances. Though he supposed ‘ _pity_ ’ wasn’t necessarily accurate. He couldn’t put a name to what lingered in that stare.

“Viktor,” the other supplied, though Yuuri couldn’t care less. The Angel extended a hand across the table, and the Demon simply stared at it. What reason did he have to be cordial? He had no wish to accelerate his inevitable execution by fraternizing with God’s mercenaries. Death forbid he find himself a new reputation.

After a moment, Viktor withdrew his hand. “Demons, always so abrasive,” he chided, and something within Yuuri stirred.

He was about tired of being regarded like he was still apart of his kin. They had exiled him so readily, and he, too, should denounce them. “I am not my kind.” He hissed, lips curling to bare pearlescent teeth, and his grip tightened around the bottle still in his grasp. The plastic groaned in protest.

“And yet the resemblance is uncanny.” Viktor crooned, tone dangerously close to taunting.

Again, he brushed the other off with nothing more than a faint growl. What did he hope to accomplish by being so derisive? Bleeding honey settled into a glare, and the fingers of his free hand tapped against the table in a visual display of impatience. 

“Such restraint.” He poked again, sapphire dipping briefly to assess the new movement with something like amusement. God seemed to enjoy ridicule, so perhaps it had been a direct order from His Holiness that Viktor was to burrow beneath Yuuri’s skin until he finally snapped. But at what risk? How far would be push this game? “You’re different from the others.” He commented again, and the ghost of a smile whispered against plush lips.

Viktor was keen to continue comparing him to his former brethren, it would seem. “Demons are not spawned from a carbon printer.” Yuuri snarked dismissively.

“Neither are Angels,” Viktor shot back with a shrug. Ah, so _that_ _'s_ what this was. Yuuri had been doing the same as Viktor without realizing it. Perhaps that was why the Angel had been compelled to trail him, to make some kind of point; express some semblance of individuality. How dreadfully self-righteous and self-serving. “But you were human once, am I correct?”

That gave Yuuri pause. He eyed the other skeptically, hand releasing the bottle at long last with a crinkle of plastic. How would Viktor know that?

His doubt must have shown, as Viktor leapt at his hesitation. “Oh? Was I right in assuming so?”

“How might you know?” Yuuri demanded. His previous life was not something he advertised, was not something he particularly wanted anyone to know about. He himself didn’t know much of who he’d been when he walked as a human, had been specifically instructed not to seek out that knowledge.

Viktor grinned, rose lips splitting pale skin as turquoise gleamed in fascination. “It’s not hard to tell a possessed human from a full-bodied demon, Yuuri.”

Ah, so the Angel didn’t know _him_ , or rather who he had been all those ages ago. Something about that was comforting. And yet _full-bodied_ implied a particular note of power he wasn’t sure he held. Sure, he’d been a member of the council, which meant he was _powerful_ , but the extent of that power was largely unknown to him. “If that’s all it is.”

Viktor nodded. “You have quite the reputation, you know.”

His musing was met with an arched brow. “You know of me?”

“How could I not?” The other replied with an airy laugh, unmarred fingers carding through glinting mercury. “The infamous Yuuri of the council, who Lucifer himself thought so highly of.” 

That earned him a dry huff of amusement; the beginning of a laugh that never came. “Clearly not. I’m here, aren’t I?” He recognized the familiarity with which Viktor had spoken, and found himself wondering if he’d known precisely who Yuuri was all along.

“Lucifer has a reputation for being quite temperamental.” Viktor hummed, amused. Yuuri couldn’t help but think that he didn’t know the half of it. The Devil had all the dramatic flair of an Angel with the added bonus of a Demon’s cruelty.

He offered an amused snort in response, picking up his fork again to continue eating his meal. With each bite he took, he rediscovered what he’d been missing in all of his years of venturing to the surface. He decided that he liked meats the most, even though the concept of eating some mammals and not others was lost on him. Did humans realize their hypocrisy when they declared that eating other humans was sacrilege, but eating animals they deemed as lesser was perfectly acceptable, normal even?

“Do you remember your life? As a human, I mean?” Viktor prodded again, and Yuuri was beginning to wonder if he would recognize the end of a conversation if he was slapped in the face with it.

He swallowed, lids dropping into something of a glare. “You're chatty.” The demon retorted, hoping against hope that the Angel would get the point.

He would not get the point. “So I've been told,” he hummed, voice carrying song-like notes as he tipped his head. A cloudy curtain fell over the better portion of his face, only one eye visible now. “But you didn't answer my question.”

Yuuri regarded him for another moment, shoving a mouthful of grains that had been named ‘ _rice_ ’ into his mouth at his leisure. He chewed and swallowed before responding, as he was a Demon, not a heathen. “No.”

Viktor blinked as if surprised. “You aren't curious?”

To say that he _wasn't_ curious would be a blatant lie. He'd been curious since his first _memory_ , or _vision_ , or _whatever_ it was, but the threat of self-destruction had kept him at bay. He had seen his own face a few times after the first incident, each time being an accident, but he’d never had another reaction like the one he’d experienced on his first voyage to this realm.

There were things he knew, like the fact that he must have been particularly evil during his lifetime to have fit the role of a Demon, and that he was likely someone with quite the expansive homicidal history. That much had sated his desire to know for a length of time, but he was quick to outgrow the revelation. But how was he to find out?

“I was— _am_.” He replied after a moment of mulling. “But I'm not sure the cost of finding out is one I'm willing to pay.” And he found himself wondering why he was revealing so much to a natural enemy.

His admission earned him a troubled look. It was infuriating, really, to be openly regarded like he was something so depraved. To his merit, Viktor decided not to pry into that comment. “You seem to be taken with the food.”

This was something that Yuuri had no qualms with talking about. He could probably write entire essays on the taste of the poultry alone. “Humans got one thing right.” He admitted, taking another mouthful as if to punctuate his statement.

A sentiment not dripping in cynicism and sarcasm appeared to have the wondrous effect of making Viktor smile as if he'd succeeded in something. His face seemed to glow like he’d been praised, all too bright and reminiscent of the sun. The sun, which Yuuri still harbored distaste for. ‘Hot’ his ass.

“It's delightful, isn't it?” Viktor remarked, his joy expressed unbidden. _Joy_ , what a petty thing. “Much better than what Heaven supplies.”

Yuuri arched a brow at that. “Still better than Hell, I would assume.” Yet he was beginning to think that that much wasn't a difficult feat. A human’s teeth would surely break should they try consuming anything in Hell’s kitchen.

Viktor laughed at that. “I'd have no way of knowing, but I couldn't imagine it would be pleasant.” Yuuri grunted his reassurance. “Heaven is so uniform. The food is bland.”

The other rolled his eyes. What a petty thing to complain about. Then again, he supposed he _was_ talking to an Angel. Right, he was talking to an _Angel_ , and about food of all things, like Demons and Angels idly conversing over a meal was something normal. He truly must have a death wish.


	2. 'Prince' Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Lucifer wants love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Yuuri and a certain Pixie get off on the wrong foot.

He resumed his travels promptly after he finished his plate, stopping himself just short of licking it clean in an effort to preserve some semblance of dignity. Though he'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind.

Viktor had settled into step beside him rather than hovering from a few feet away, claiming again that it would be careless of him to allow a Demon to slip from his sight. Even still, Yuuri couldn't figure out why the Angel was so determined to cling to him rather than simply strike him down and move on to the next unwelcome presence. He supposed he couldn't complain now that the tag along had fallen silent, giving him the space he so desperately craved inside his own mind, even if his energy alone was noxious. If he had to suffer through the company, at least he was no longer being interrogated.

It would be in his best interest to shake the Angel off of his path as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and he fully intended to do so. He needed an opening, maybe a distraction, but the likelihood of one conveniently falling into his lap was slim. Their combined presence sang a beacon to those who wished him dead, but wishing for another Demon to appear just for the sake of escape would be foolish. The entire situation was annoying at best. After all, he had been trying very hard to stay off of the radar, and his newest nuisance wasn't making it easy.

It had fallen dark, which was some form of comfort to his soul despite the aching chill that settled in when the moon presented itself. If there was anything he loathed more than the sun, it was the moon. Bright and pure, and it invited a more intimate level of cold. At least the sun was a mass of flame, despite being too far away to do much good. The moon was a rock. A cold, useless rock.

The humans had nestled into their homes to rest, naturally. Some part of him envied their naivety, envied that falsified feeling of safety beyond a locked door. Ignorance was bliss, even if it was willful. He would kill for that feeling of security, no matter how unwitting or defenseless it made him. What good to him was this form with his essence still reeking of charred soul?

And yet with the humans put up inside their homes, a new presence chose to present itself. Not human, not Demonic, and yet certainly not Angelic. Yuuri halted, feet stilling against the pavement as keen eyes caught sight of a figure ducking behind the corner of a building. He inhaled through his nose, taking in a scent that was entirely new to him. It would seem that Viktor had noticed it too, if his sudden disappearance was anything to go by.

The Angel wasn’t far. Yuuri could still feel his presence looming overhead, simply observing. Typical.

“You're indiscreet.” Yuuri called out, voice low enough not to carry and yet loud enough that the other should have heard.

The figure presented itself a moment later, stepping into the low-lit street wearing a human appearance with skin darker than Yuuri’s own. Dark hair was swept cleanly to the side, displaying thick, groomed brows and eyes a slate grey. “I suppose it can't be helped.” The other replied, placing his hands up in surrender.

The clothes he wore were clearly lavish, even to Yuuri’s untrained eye for fashion. Silk that glimmered when the yellowed beams of street lights struck just right, and flashy jewelry following the same pattern. The pieces smelled strongly of humans, like they'd been gifts, or possibly something to mask the other’s own peculiar scent. There was no masking that presence however—weightless and riddled with mischief.

“What do you want?” Yuuri demanded, clipped and ringing with annoyance. Could he not have a single moment of peace? Were all the creatures of the lands bound and determined to make Earth into its own version of Hell?

“Straight down to business,” the being remarked, laughing. Yuuri scrutinized him, taking in his lithe build and assessing what level of threat he posed. Though he didn't carry a menacing outward weigh, neither did Yuuri in this form. Stature was entirely too deceptive in this realm. Add that to the list of cons. It was difficult to tell without knowledge of his species, but the fact that he was neither Demon nor Angel was a decent indication.

“The infamous councilman Eros, or more frankly put, Lucifer’s own lapdog.” The creature regarded, entirely too cheeky for words that seemed to scald.

Yuuri bared his teeth, spiteful hiss escaping him before he had time to rationalize how detrimental it might be. The aspects of himself that made him truly despicable were boiling under his skin, begging to peek beneath that final layer of this Earthen form and take him over completely. “That is not my name.”

“Oh, right.” The other amended, waving one of this raised hands. “Since you've been banned from Hell and all.” His apparent affinity for being so casual was fast corroding whatever remained of the Demon’s frail patience.

He didn't dignify that remark with a response, instinct taking over his feet and carrying him forward a step. The other took a step in the opposite direction, seemingly intent on keeping his distance even though he’d been so eager to flippantly spit such taunting statements. Yuuri’s wings strained beneath his skin, but he kept them firmly hidden. It was painful, yes, but the last thing he needed was to be emanating Demonic essence at a time like this, when there were others already aware of precisely who he was. For creatures to congregate in this way, it was an open invitation for others to follow. Not good.

“I wonder, what would your Master think if he caught you fraternizing with an Angel so closely after being banned for doing the same with a human?” The other mused like it was a threat, and a warning growl vibrated through Yuuri’s throat in response. “I suppose it's only natural that a Demon of your stature would also be a glutton for punishment.”

The Demon’s patience was wearing ever thinner. His  _ Master _ ? Hah! Lucifer was  _ nothing  _ to him—nothing more than a rotting carcass perched upon a flashy, gilded throne. And it was funny, because Yuuri was certain that his rage was poorly concealed, and still the other was working to turn his flame into a full-bodied conflagration. “ _ Oh _ ? But you seem to be the one begging for it now.”

“Oh, no. I'm not here to fight you,” he assured, seeming to punctuate his statement with a wave of decorated hands.

“It's in your best interest to start  _ explaining _ .”

Seeming to have no sensor for tension or the precarious position his life was in, the other  _ laughed _ . Yuuri was beginning to abandon his thoughts of remaining concealed. No—actually, at this point he could strangle the being with these pitiful human hands. That might be its own brand of satisfying; a display of power, if you might.

“So hasty,” the other chided, and Yuuri swallowed a snarl. “There's a very pretty bounty on your head,  _ Eros _ .”

His wings strained at the repeated use of  _ Lucifer’s _ name for him, but he managed to keep himself intact. The shadow of a halo cast at his back and the telling surge of  _ Angel  _ was troublesome. Unfurling now would spell disaster. He was all too aware of the consequences of attacking. Perhaps that was why the other seemed intent on pushing his luck—smarter than he seemed.

Insufferable Angel, and his disgusting affinity for foiling whatever Yuuri might like to indulge in, be it peace or the opposite. “A bounty?” He repeated through grit teeth, his words still dripping in untempered ire.

“Placed by Daddy himself.” He went on to explain in mischievous sing-song. “The Demon who kills you is being offered your seat on the council, and it turns out a lot of your brothers and sisters want it enough to offer a sizeable reward to anyone who has a lead on you.” A splitting grin. “Imagine my luck!”

His seat on the council? Surely his kin weren't so foolish to think that they would  _ actually  _ be rewarded something so distinguished for the simple task of snuffing him out. “ _ Imbeciles _ ,” he muttered, hot and vicious beneath his breath. Weren't they aware by now that Lucifer was about as trustworthy as he was idiotic?

“Maybe so,” the other mused. “But I'm sure you understand what it's like to want your seat in Lucifer’s choir.”

He did, at one point. The lengths he’d gone to in order to prove himself worthy were great, and he’d been rewarded for his efforts. Lucifer was, in a few words, not what Yuuri had been expecting once he’d finally had the chance to meet him.  _ Libidinous _ , in a word—insatiable in another. While at first Yuuri had been inclined to think that the King was so hopelessly coquettish towards all of his councilmen, it soon became apparent that such was not the case when he’d begun to refer to Yuuri as his  _ Prince  _ in private.

Flattered as he’d been, and reverent as he was, accepting any of the  _ many _ offers made to him would have been to place an apple on his head, and his kin weren't to be praised for their aim. He supposed it  _ was _ something he should've wanted, but he’d never had any interest. Inexplicable, maybe, but the results were what they were.

“Dead men tell no tales.” Yuuri challenged, taking another resounding step forward.

“What luck I seem to have! I'm no mere man, oh great  _ Eros _ .” The other grinned as if innocent, taking another accommodating step backward. Yuuri could keep this up until they reached the ends of the Earth and the being’s back hit the wall if it meant he could wrap his fingers around his neck. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

“I wish you wouldn't.” Yuuri hissed, dark and dry and all too true to his nature.

“Phichit Chulanont, Pixie, esteemed merchant,” he grinned, “and master of leading people astray. For the right price, of course.”

So that was it, he'd come to bargain. He'd come to bargain with a  _ Demon.  _ Surely he recognized how ironic that was. To his merit, they  _ were _ technically at a crossroad. “How much is your life worth?” Yuuri snarked, something innately vicious seizing every letter passing between his teeth.

“Ah, ah!” Phichit chided, wagging a finger. His grin didn't falter at the threat. “I've got some information you might like to know.” He tipped his head to the roof of a nearby building. “You too, Mr. Right.”

Clearly he didn't value his life much. Yuuri opened his mouth to speak again, but the Angelic presence reappeared at his side in an instant, and he fought the urge to retch. The whisper of retreating wings still had his head reeling, and with nerves already alight, it was hard to stifle the urge to unravel.

“I'm listening.” Viktor replied, arms folded at his chest as he regarded the other. Yuuri growled low in his throat.

“For you, Angel, the location of a dear friend.” Phichit crooned, giddy at being given an open invitation to continue his—put gently—ridiculous antics. “And for Eros,” another promise of death from Yuuri in the form of a snarl, “your life. Your human one, that is.”

“Not interested.” Yuuri replied in an instant.

“Dear friend?” Viktor implored in tandem. The pair shared a look, one exceedingly more vicious than the other’s cold and distant stare.

Phichit ignored Yuuri’s impertinence in favor of addressing the one his hooks had more easily sunk into. Surely Viktor was not foolish enough to ignore the flashing signs screaming, ‘Con man,’ was he? “Does Christophe ring any bells?”

Yuuri’s eyes shifted from Phichit to Viktor, who looked utterly  _ stunned _ . Oh, for the love of death. Angels weren't typically  _ this  _ naive.

“Christophe?” Viktor parroted, and Yuuri was blindsided by the raw affection dripping from his voice. Another Angel, perhaps?

“Ah, so I was right!” The Pixie chirped, seemingly proud of himself for whatever strings he’d pulled to conjure such an association. “He had lovely things to say about you,  _ mon cher _ .”

The last of the sentence was probably mimicking something Yuuri had no knowledge of, nor did he care enough to know. Though if it would shake Viktor’s talons loose, he would cling to every letter like it was his job. Perhaps this wouldn't be a complete waste of his time after all. Perhaps  _ this _ was his opening to escape.

Though the step Yuuri took backward was met with a turn of the Angel’s head. Wishful thinking.

“Not so fast!” Phichit hummed, this time taking a step forward. Intent on keeping their current distance, indeed. “Wouldn't you like to know the misadventures of one very  _ naughty  _ Yuuri Katsuki?”

He absolutely abhorred repeating himself. “I've said I have no interest.” Yuuri seethed again, and his pointed glare shifted from Viktor back to the Pixie.

Though even he knew that his words were false. He wanted to know. He'd wanted to know for longer than curiosity would typically allow. It had been something of an obsession hundreds of years ago, something nagging that had circulated in his brain until it was almost too much to contain. Even still, there was little he could do to remedy the situation when the effects were so dire.

“Come now, would you say that if I told you that there are entire cults trying to replicate your work?” The other pushed.

Despite himself, despite knowing better, he bit the bait. “My  _ work _ ?” Yuuri asked, and the Angel before him noticeably stiffened. He would analyze what that meant another time.

“Oh yes, you were quite the dastardly fellow, dear Yuuri.” Phichit urged, taking a brave step into the territory he’d set for himself. The Demon eyed him carefully. “I’d hate for you to miss out on such a riveting story. The stuff of legends, naturally.”

For what it was worth, the Pixie knew what words to say to stir his ever-building curiosity. Even so, he had no way of knowing whether or not anything he was spinning was true. The thought of being deceived wasn't a pleasant one, but he knew lies when he heard them. This wasn’t a farce—Phichit actually  _ knew  _ something.

But he knew all too well the cost of stargazing. If one simple memory had brought him to his knees, imagine the effect his entire human life would have. Regardless of whether or not knowledge was best, the other was asking for payment, and Yuuri had no means of providing such a thing.

“I don't have—”

“I'm not asking for money.” Phichit replied, all too eager as he took another resounding step forward. Yuuri arched a brow. “Currency really isn't my forte, you see. I actually prefer to barter.”

“To barter?” Viktor repeated, as it seemed he’d recently become nothing more than a mere echo.

“Oh, yes. I rather like gifts.” The Pixie hummed. True to his nature, it would seem, and he appeared to have particular tastes.

And yet, Yuuri owned nothing material of worth, especially not up to the glittering standards of Phichit’s other garnishings, though that did explain why the embellishments smelled so heavily of humans. They were easier to manipulate. He elected not to speak, letting the other continue spinning at his leisure.

“For keeping my mouth shut about your whereabouts, for relaying your life,” the Pixie turned to Viktor, “and for escorting you to your dearest friend, I ask for protection.”

“ _ Protection _ ?” Yuuri repeated. Surely he hadn't heard him right. Surely he wouldn't be so naive as to trust a Demon with guarding his life. An Angel, fine, but a  _ Demon _ ?

“Yes, protection!” Phichit crowed, and he strolled up to present both hands for a shake. “From any and all bodily harm, which includes mythical beings of all sorts, unsatisfied customers, and from each of you.”

Yuuri and Viktor regarded the proffered hands like they were legally binding contracts. They would do well to consider that notion at length.

Quite possibly the widest smile Yuuri had seen yet, which was saying something. “What do you say, boys? Do we have a deal?”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri was beginning to think he'd gone completely and irrevocably mad. Phichit, who was even more speech inclined than Viktor, he’d come to realize, had insisted that they take residence in a temporary room for rest. Yuuri had thought it to be rather pointless until the Pixie jabbed a finger into the skin beneath his eyes, crowing something about ‘bags’ and ‘when was the last time you slept?’. When he replied that he hadn’t since he spawned so gracelessly in some strange area of this realm that he’d yet to explore in previous plights, he was—annoyingly enough—admonished for being so ‘reckless’ with his human body, and warned that he would simply pass out from exhaustion if he kept it up much longer.

His human form, he decided, was a hindrance. Constant re-fueling, hydration, and now the added burden of rest, was quite inefficient. He’d never had this problem in his previous ventures, though he supposed he’d never been exposed to the surface at length either. Humans, so needy. They were comparable to fledglings.

He’d also been requested to bathe, some remark offered about how he probably hadn’t showered and he would begin to smell repugnant after a while. That had been an experience, being doused with cold water that boasted ‘hot’, just like everything else in this realm that had so far deceived him. The bright red of his flesh proved to tell otherwise, and Phichit had been all too keen to comment on it. He responded with a gruff, “I’m not a fan of the cold,” which earned him a snicker.

Viktor had been surprisingly quiet, seeming content to let his mind eat at him until he was nothing but holy dust on the ground. That was fine with Yuuri—one less thing to deal with. The Angel was propped on the edge of one of the two mattresses, staring quite intently at a blank screen while Phichit settled himself into the open bed. Yuuri had settled onto the floor nearest the escape, and the furthest he could hope to get from the other beings in his presence. He’d been tempted to simply wait until the other two lost consciousness and leave, but his human form was quickly betraying whatever plans he might have had. His eyelids were pulling closed of their own volition, and his vision was swimming in a blackened vignette.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen into the time-devouring abyss that was sleep until a foot nudged him awake.

His hand reached out to clasp around an ankle before his eyes ever had the chance to open, hearing a started yelp followed by a hiss of pain before fleshly fingers came to pry his hand away from the prey it had captured. He was rolled from his stomach to his back, unwilling lids peeling apart to meet the all too brightly lit room, and he groaned out of annoyance. His eyes came to fixate on two strikingly human-presenting faces, one of which appeared obscenely scandalized while the other remained stoic.

Yuuri scrambled back with a hiss, slamming his skull against the door with a resounding ‘ _ crack _ ’. It took him a few moments to reorient and to remember where he was, and who those faces belonged to. His lips, which had curled themselves into a snarl, relaxed with the realization. Oh, yeah. Phichit and Viktor.

“You seemed to enjoy your nap for someone who so vehemently protested against sleep.” Phichit commented in a manner that could only be described as dry, and Yuuri offered a charming glare in response.

His palms lifted to dig into his eyes, clearing the evidence of sleep from his lashes. “Human vessels are inconvenient.”

“So whiny.” Phichit muttered under his breath. Yuuri heard him.

“Try burning in Hell for a thousand years.” The Demon bit back. “It makes you rather impervious to the triflings of humanity.”

He pushed himself to his feet, muttering under his breath when his muscles were met with stiff resistance. Feeble, irritating human body. He loathed it. The pressure at his back was becoming quite irksome as well, and he was increasingly aware of the fact that his wings would soon chose to stretch themselves if he chose to ignore them for much longer. Adamant as he was that they should be hitting the road promptly and with urgency, he was also tempted by the idea of letting himself breathe for a moment or two. The thrumming in his shoulderblades seemed to agree.

“I’d like some privacy for a moment.” Yuuri stated, though it sounded like a demand, even to him.

Phichit arched a thick brow, but couldn’t manage a word before Viktor  _ oh so graciously _ declared a flat, “No.”

“ _ No _ ?” Yuuri repeated, ire already on full display so quickly after resuming consciousness.

“No.” Viktor repeated, unrelenting. “You’re a flight risk, and it would be irresponsible of me to let you out of my sight.” He was gravely serious, face set sternly into something bordering a scowl. Yuuri decided he enjoyed that look even less than the more pitiful ones he’d been tossed in their earlier encounters.

Yuuri could not phase through walls, nor could he teleport, nor could he stuff his full body and wings through the small window in the room in order to take flight in broad daylight and declare to the world not only his location but that he had not half a working brain cell. He fought the urge to bare his teeth at the other, but the tension was thick all the same. Phichit appeared visibly uncomfortable, and Yuuri couldn’t have pitied him if he tried. What was the Pixie expecting when he bribed two naturally opposing forces into being his personal bodyguards? He had to wonder just  _ who  _ exactly the being had managed to piss off, if he was desperate enough to go to these extremes.

“You have my word that I—”

“The word of a  _ Demon _ is worthless,” the Angel retorted, and Yuuri was beginning to wonder where his previous cheer and crooning had flown off to. Back to the whole  _ Demon _ thing, venom and all. If he wanted to resume their born roles of hatred for one another, so be it. Yuuri welcomed it, actually.

Rather than spit some scathing comment about his current standing with his brethren and his wishes not to be associated with them, he simply growled from deep within his chest and shoved past the other toward the center of the room. He didn’t miss the threat dripping from sapphire at his aggression, but he was sure his own honey sang marvelous promises of a less than merciful death in response.

He situated himself between the pair of beds, shedding the top half of his heavily layered clothing and letting it fall haphazardly to the ground at his feet. If the others wished to suffer through the overwhelming atmosphere of dread and nausea, that was their prerogative. Served them right, if you asked him. With a roll of his shoulders forward, he released a slow exhale. Dual incisions presented themselves at his shoulderblades, the first of midnight feathers peeking through his thin veil of humanity.

He felt the warmth of amaranth dripping down his back as his wings stretched outward, the initial parting of his flesh soon splitting down the length of his back, and his hands pulled at their opposite shoulders to assist the birth of Demonic presence. He felt the influx of strength, stifling a groan as the masses at his back pressed ever onward. It was all syrup and confectionery, a pleasure so indescribable and yet he could write symphonies about his satisfaction. The wings, vast and ink-dripping as they were, extended to their full length, and the room grew ever smaller in comparison.

They were black holes given definite shape it seemed, swallowing his image whole and sucking what little light the timid bulbs in the ceiling dared to emit. Like feathers of a crow dipped in dark matter, lying uniform and flat against one another. He rolled his shoulders back, standing proud and allowing the wings to fold neatly at his back. Blood pooled at the waistline of his jeans, but he wasn’t at all concerned with it. Something inherently feral threatened to tear through his throat, and he swallowed it before it had a chance to escape. Ah yes, the symbol of his stature—the only pride he had remaining.

His eyes shifted to the others; a very grim and tight lipped Angel, and a Pixie kneeling while one hand scrambled for purchase against the smooth wall. Phichit looked like the breath had been knocked from his lungs, and his free hand covered his mouth to contain either the urge to vomit or the urge to scream. He couldn’t be blamed, however. Yuuri could feel his own overwhelming presence reverberating off of white walls and filtering back through his pores. He looked very much like Death incarnate.

Viktor’s eyes were intently fixated on the evidence of Yuuri’s damnation, but he did well to hold his breath. Oh, the things he must feel  _ so  _ inclined to say, to do—Yuuri reveled in it. He wanted to bottle the pained expression painted so clearly against marble, to boil everything else away until nothing but  _ hate _ was left, and he wanted to drink it in like his own personal wine. The screams of agony appealed to some, but the visage of one clearly stricken Angel, that appealed to him.

He drew in another deep breath, filling his lungs with the mint-like chill of Earthen atmosphere to their brim. He retracted, drawing his pride inward and back beyond the covering of flesh until it was nothing but a faint whisper of a memory. He stretched upward once more before allowing himself to collect his clothing and redress himself.

Phichit seemed to recover whatever breath he’d lost, shoving himself upright with an indignant cry of, “Never do that in front of me again.”

“I asked for privacy, you might recall.” Yuuri replied quite facetiously, pulling layer after layer overhead until he could finally replace his coat. “We should be on our way, before unwelcome passersby invite themselves in.”

Viktor elected not to say anything, but it seemed his breathing had returned to normal. Good for him.

The Pixie wrenched the door open hard enough for it to slam into the wall, all but storming away with Yuuri following not far behind. Viktor fell into step beside him, as he’d done before, and the bristling hostility was beginning to grate the Demon. Despite his better judgement, he chose to comment.

“What a time to remember that you’re an Angel, after accepting a bribe from a Harpie.” He snarked, ignoring the aggrieved shout of, ‘ _ Pixie! _ ’ that Phichit threw over his shoulder.

Viktor’s jaw clenched, much like he was chewing on a particularly unsavory thought. “I wasn’t aware that I’d been in the presence of Hell’s own Prince Eros.” He replied, and though he was decidedly bitter, his comment lacked the venom that Yuuri had expected. “To think, I’d never made the connection.”

That statement alone was rather bemusing.  _ Prince _ Eros? He’d only ever been referred to as such by Lucifer, and to his knowledge, in private quarters. The name was scalding all the same, and he bared his teeth at it. “ _ Don’t _ ,” he hissed, drawing a breath, “call me that.”

Viktor threw a sidelong glance which could only be described as petulant. “Oh, pardon me _! _ Is it reserved for  _ Lucifer _ ?”

That tone, so patronizing and so—so  _ petty _ ! Like a lover scorned, or a jealous ex. It rubbed him entirely the wrong way. “ _ Hah _ !” He managed, incredulous. “What business of  _ yours  _ would it be if it were?”

Viktor halted completely, prompting Yuuri to follow suit. They hadn’t even managed to make it to the elevator, simply standing and seething in the hall like morons, the Demon thought. The Angel looked entirely rigid, muscle wound tight beneath pale flesh in some pathetic show of restraint. “So, it’s true.” A statement, not a question. “Yuuri of the cabinet. Yuuri, Prince Eros, Satan’s Mistress. It’s true.”

_ What _ ? To say that Yuuri was floored would be bitterly understated. He had half the mind to simply stand and gape at the other like the idiot he was. “Yuuri,  _ what _ ?” He squawked, rage unbridled. “ _ What _ did you call me?”

Rather than repeat himself, Viktor resumed walking all at once. Briskly. He all but shoved past Yuuri, practically storming down the hall after the Pixie who  _ apparently _ had better things to do than wait for his newly appointed guards to catch up. The Demon whirled around, molasses catching a flame that rivaled Hell’s conflagration, and he didn’t bother to swallow the growl that gurgled up from the hollow expanse of his chest where a heart might have once been. Satan’s  _ what _ ?

“Who would dare?” He demanded, fury driving his heels as he came dangerously close to stomping down the hall after the other two. He managed to shove an arm into the elevator right before it closed, eyes narrowed pointedly as he attempted to pick Viktor apart with the force of his gaze alone.

“Ask your lover.” Viktor replied curtly, the way his arms crossed over his chest making him look more like a fledgling than was probably legally allowed.

Phichit groaned, sinking into his corner of the elevator as the doors closed in some vain effort to distance himself from the quarrel. “For the love of—”

Yuuri shifted his glare to Phichit. “Say  _ God _ , I dare you.” Phichit placed his hands up in surrender, clearly still reeling from Yuuri’s earlier display of wingspan.

Satisfied by the Pixie’s obedient silence, the Demon turned his attention back to the more pressing matter at hand. “ _ Lover _ ?” Yuuri scoffed, utterly scandalized. “Lucifer,  _ my  _ lover? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“There’s nothing to insinuate,” and the responding tone was dead, cold even. It irked Yuuri to no end. “And from the sounds of it, it’s much more public than you might think.”

Public? What was there to be made public? That Lucifer was a devious, overdramatic flirt who’d asked for Yuuri’s hand many times and had been skillfully denied in the most respectful of ways? More importantly,  _ why _ did this conversation so resemble the one preceding his untimely excavation from Hell?

The elevator ‘ _ dinged _ ’, and Phichit made his great escape onto the ground floor with the skin of his teeth intact. Yuuri took a step back, if only to press a hand against the elevator doors so they would not enclose them inside once again. This was  _ far _ from over, if he had any say in it. “I will say this once. I do not like to repeat myself,” though the argument could be made that he’d been mentally repeating that same phrase quite frequently as of late, “Lucifer is  _ nothing _ to me.”

Viktor simply stared, appearing completely unconvinced, and Yuuri was content to glare back until both of their vessels collapsed from sleep deprivation and malnourishment. After a long moment of stalled silence, tension circulating until it congealed and dripped masses of pitch ink onto the glossy floor of the elevator, a high-pitched shriek cut through their staring contest to signify that the door Yuuri was blocking would very much like to shut.

Viktor shoved past him, his shoulder knocking into the Demon’s own and sending him with stumbling steps onto the ground floor.  _ Oh _ , the gall! He stood there for a moment, watching the Angel retreat into the hotel lobby while Phichit made work of checking them out of their hotel. If he thought he’d wanted to wage a battle the day prior, now he wanted a war. He wanted kicking and screaming and all out bloodshed, because he was being talked down to like a  _ thing _ .

His kin, this was the way they’d talked to him, and they only had the capacity to respect Satan himself. To be spoken to this way by an Angel so unfathomably scorned by the idea of a Demon he spared being so intimate in relations with Lucifer, well, it was completely intolerable. What, then? Viktor would kill him now? Shouldn’t he have done that ages ago?

But this was a petty rage, as if he had some form of personal grudge. Maybe he did. Maybe he hated Lucifer, and that’s what had caused this—this childish lashing out! Yuuri hardly thought that to be  _ his _ problem. And if he  _ had  _ taken up the role of Prince, what did that change? He had no place in a dispute between siblings. Why was Yuuri himself more angry than annoyed? Why had he felt the need to denounce the accusations at all? He had nothing to prove; not to himself and  _ certainly _ not to Viktor.

He drew a deep breath, willing the wings at his back to stop cutting through his human guise. Calm. Rational. Be self-preserving, don’t do anything to put a bigger blimp on the map than stretching already had. This rage was dangerous, blind. He needed to recover whatever semblance of control he had.

Except a thought occurred to him. He was standing on the ground floor, in the open, with the other two planted firmly at the check-out desk, paying him absolutely no mind. Yes,  _ yes _ ! This was his opening, his chance to make himself scarce. What was he doing, standing there like a damned fool when he could easily be escaping? He took one firm step in the direction of makeshift freedom, and one step soon turned into many steps.

His feet successfully hit the pavement, out of the lobby’s direct sight, and he walked. He just  _ walked _ . Walked away, into the light of the sun he so loathed, and kept walking. It was easier than he thought. If he’d have known that all he’d had to do was genuinely piss Viktor off, he would have started chipping away at him  _ miles _ ago. Of course it had been that easy, what was he thinking?

He made it well and truly around the corner before his feet stopped moving of their own volition. Dark brows drew in confusion, staring down at his human form as it betrayed him yet again. Frustrating, though he supposed he could deal with bodily rejection so long as he managed to force himself forward somehow. He would drag himself away by his arms if necessary, blending in with humans be  _ damned _ .

He tried again for another sure step forward, and yet his feet continued to deny him. He attempted to lift an arm to no avail. What was this? Did human bodies shut down for some regularly scheduled internal maintenance that he happened to be oblivious to?

He heard steps behind him, and the muttered comment of, ‘ _ How long do you think it will take him to realize _ ?’ in a voice that belonged to his, decidedly, least favorite Pixie. He attempted to turn his head. Nothing. He was stuck standing there, like an idiot, while the pair of creatures he was avidly hoping to escape arced around him to come into view.

Viktor crossed his arms over his chest, arching a fine brow. “Going somewhere?”

Oh.  _ Oh _ . He would have hissed a scathing remark in response had his lips been able to move.  _ Angels _ , they were the truly devious ones. At least Demons were open about their deceptive tendencies. This allotted false hope, it was simply cruel.

The being in question merely sighed. Phichit extended a hand before he appeared to think better of it. “Wait, before I do that,” he began, shoving a hand into his pocket for some device Yuuri had come to know as a cell phone from his previous ventures to Earth. He was wrong. This wasn’t Viktor’s doing. “I’ve never seen him look so happy. I want a picture of this.”

_ Oh _ , Yuuri was absolutely broiling, especially when Viktor just let Phichit hold the phone up to snap a shot in commemoration of Yuuri’s so-called happiness. Once the deed was done, the Pixie resumed his previous movement and laid a hand on the Demon’s shoulder.

Yuuri’s body relaxed near instantly, apparently given the grace to move again. “ _ You _ ,” Yuuri hissed, “what did you do to me?”

“We have a contract.” Phichit grinned, every bit as triumphant as he rightfully should have been. “I have a very particular insurance policy. Consider it loss prevention.”

“You’re  _ despicable _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angry Demon Yuuri for you. Don't worry, he's very dry now but he will loosen up in the future. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feedback is much appreciated!


	3. Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories, concerned Viktor, and a power trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's wings have quite the effect on him, you might come to realize.
> 
> I'd also like to take advantage of this soap box to say that while Demons and Angels typically speak in Biblical Hebrew in their respective places of incarnation, on Earth (particularly in English speaking countries) we will assume they speak English whether from a past life's knowledge or a possessed vessel's knowledge of the language (since humans-turned-demon are in the minority). Yuuri obviously also speaks Japanese, but doesn't know why, and Viktor speaks Russian. Also, I don't speak Hebrew, so just... imagine it, with your mind.

Their voyage had been plummeted into a deeply uncomfortable and incredibly tense silence. They’d left the previous town only to enter another one, stopping only when Phichit awkwardly suggested something about eating, and despite Yuuri’s love for human food, he hardly had an appetite. It seemed that Viktor was experiencing something similar, as a large part of their time at the diner had been spent with him doing more stabbing at his pancakes than actually eating them. At least he’d been stabbing them with his fork rather than his knife, as Yuuri had been with his own meal.

After some debate and a few pointed comments about ‘ _demons should be kept from humans_ ’ and ‘ _i_ _t’s a bit late to start thinking that way now_ ’, Phichit was eventually able to coax the simmering pair of rival entities onto one of the human transportation mechanisms. The Pixie mentioned something about reimbursement for his money, but Yuuri wasn't much concerned with it. He was perfectly content to walk; taking the bus had been Phichit’s idea. Surely he knew that a Demon ripped from the depths of Hell and spit out onto Earth wouldn't have a single penny to his name.

The bus ride was uneventful, quiet. The dull drone of human chatter proved to be even less entertaining than Yuuri had imagined, which he deemed a difficult feat. With the intermittent glare at the air conditioning unit, he spent most of his time staring out of the window as if he was trying to destroy the landscape with only his eyes. He’d been informed that they were leaving the state of Arizona, and passed into New Mexico before they’d elected to get off of the ‘ _Greyhound_ ’ to rest somewhere that wasn’t the seat of a bus.

Yuuri had many questions, none of them voiced and most of them pertaining to the fate of the ‘Old Mexico’ and why a bus was named after a breed of canine. He’d never had to understand humans in order to blend in with them, after all, and he hadn’t been the most frequent visitor to the surface realm. The people and their peculiarities never failed to intrigue him, despite his best efforts to claim otherwise. He could at least admit, although begrudgingly, that the bus was a more efficient mode of travel than his own two feet.

To his merit, the Pixie had proven himself more intelligent than Yuuri had originally surmised by electing not to speak much during their transit. The air between the trio was remarkably stale, Viktor’s remaining bitterness little more than an annoyance at this point.

That left them in their current standings, walking through dimly lit streets once more until the Pixie would inevitably start to whine about sleep. It was approaching the time that humans typically started to turn in for the night, as the shops were locking their doors and turning out their lights. This town was much smaller than the one they’d traveled through before getting on the Greyhound, Yuuri noted, as there were more spaces between shops and housing and a sufficient decrease in surface dwellers.

Phichit pulled out his cellular device again, the light of the screen striking his face as he started tapping away at the thing. Yuuri eyed it suspiciously for a considerable length of time before deciding that there was no threat of more unwelcome photography, at least for the moment. He turned his gaze back to the road, molten citrine betraying him and glancing heavenward to accommodate the moon. It seemed to grow smaller every night, taking on qualities of a much more deformed circle. Apparently, this was not cause for alarm, as no one had chosen to comment on Earth’s impending doom.

As the hour stretched on and the building lights tapered away to nothing, the air settled naturally into its precariously balanced state of calm. The wind carried its same mint-like cleanliness. Dare Yuuri say he was beginning to become accustomed to it, even if it wasn’t something he would consider pleasant. Damn his past life for being so cruel; surely those of his kin who could simply possess human bodies did not have half the complications that he was experiencing. After all, only their souls were dealt damage by flame—it was his entire _being_.

“I’m going to book a hotel.” Phichit announced, and Yuuri merely grunted in response. Viktor offered a nod to confirm that he’d heard and took no issue.

The Pixie guided them in the direction of their temporary safe haven, pointing to the streets where they should turn using the blue line on his cellphone as a map. The place they happened upon was much smaller than the previous hotel, only one floor. Phichit instructed the two to wait outside while he checked them in with the front office, appearing several minutes later with a plastic card and the number to the room they would be occupying.

Another space with two beds, a television, and a bathroom. Viktor was the first to take advantage of the shower, leaving Phichit and Yuuri to sit quietly in the room. As with before, the Demon stationed himself as far from the beds as possible, completely unbothered by taking up residence on the floor. Phichit slung his bag onto the bed nearest the window, unzipping and rifling through it for something Yuuri didn’t care enough to comment on.

“ _Aha_!” The Pixie declared his triumph, pulling a folder from the leather bag and holding it up for inspection. Yuuri spared him a glance, observing the creased and worn black manila paper with little interest. He watched as the creature placed the folder down, pulling it open to reveal what appeared to be photocopies of newspaper clippings with metal clasps keeping everything bound and separated in groups.

“At first I didn’t care much about your legacy, but the more I found out, the more intriguing it became.” Phichit started, thumbing through his pages in search of something in particular. “Let’s start small, shall we?”

Yuuri grunted, shifting his legs along the carpet as Phichit walked to present him with a photograph. It appeared to be printed onto a sheet of paper, likely taken from the internet, and was of his same face—young, but a boy, with hair slicked back and those same citrine eyes staring back at him. He examined it, taking in his curious attire. Clothes that clung to his body, their color implying the bareness that humans seemed so opposed to viewing. All too thin and flimsy for him to envision himself wearing it in the present.

He was posed, all brilliant grace, and lean muscle, and curved lines. He arched a brow, finding it hard to imagine that this body could ever situate itself in such a position. Beneath the picture, a handful of characters his brain willfully translated without prompting: _Katsuki Yuuri, age 11, Lohengrin._ He glanced up at the Pixie, eyes telling of equal parts confusion and curiosity.

“It wasn’t easy to find. I actually had a bit of help.” Phichit explained, and Yuuri simply stared at him. “Here,” he continued, slipping another paper into Yuuri’s hands. “An associate found this on a really, really shady website. Like, Dark Web shady. It's basically the cultist equivalent of a fan page, detailing every known facet of your life. It’s the same one he found the picture of you on, actually.”

A woman, smiling with a particular level of confidence and dignity. Familiar, but for reasons the Demon couldn’t understand. He scrutinized the image, taking in light hair, slate eyes, skin a shade lighter than his own. Something like a whisper of nostalgia scraped at the walls of his memories, grasping for the ends of broken tethers.

“Minako Okukawa,” Phichit supplied, and whatever following comments about her involvement were drowned by white noise.

The photograph in his hands stirred, breaking free of the paper it was printed onto and inviting itself into life. The image of his own legs and the surrounding carpet blurred into nonexistence, a much lighter and brighter scene painting itself into view. Harsh—the yellowed tinge of artificial light. He was staring into a ceiling, his chest heaving with the proof of his efforts. The burn in his lungs was anything but foreign.

“Come on, you can’t be _that_ exhausted.” The familiar voice of his instructor, speaking to him in a language that translated so naturally in his brain that he was almost convinced it had been spoken to him since birth. His image shifted, head drawing up from the hardwood to accommodate the visage of an amused smile. He groaned, letting his head fall back against the ground with a light ‘ _thump_ ’.

“You’re the Devil,” he replied in a breathless laugh, his own voice sounding much smaller than it did now. _Oh_ , and how naive a comment that had been; he’d had the pleasure of meeting the Devil, and this woman was nothing comparatively.

“Oh, get up.” She chided, nudging his thigh with her foot. “Before I make you eat those words.”

And he complied, peeling his saline-soaked self up from the floor with the help of the woman’s extended hand. He drew in a deep breath, assessing her as she placed her hands on her hips. “One more time, then we’ll pack it in for the day.”

He turned, met with his own image in the reflection of a large paneled mirror, and his body poised itself as if the movement was completely inherent. He looked so young, so full of _life_ , and it was as disorienting as it was nauseating. Soft footsteps, followed by a tune so far ingrained into his mind that he could feel a hum clinging to the walls of his throat, begging to be vocalized. He began to move.

Except he wasn’t moving—he was staring at the caps of his knees drawn up to his chest, fingers curled tightly into the soft strings of his hair, and his own haggard breathing drowned out the song still echoing through his memory. His chest ached as though it had been scooped hollow, as though it was begging for the relief of being able to collapse in on itself. A dying star, pleading self-destruction and to leave an all-consuming rift in its place. He sounded frantic, each exhale carrying the notes of a scream’s birth, echoing the panic of humans newly trapped in the first ring.

Hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly and shaking him. His head lifted to take in a blurred visage, but someone distinguishable all the same. Wet tendrils of platinum, and the unmistakable blue of an Angel’s gaze. He heard his name, distant but becoming louder, and the pressure at his shoulders released only for palms to cup his face. He felt the pads of fleshly fingers sliding along his skin, spreading moisture as they went.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asked and not for the first time, his voice something dangerously close to a plead.

Yuuri blinked, his lids finally beginning to relax from where they'd been peeled back. His vision focused enough to sharpen the image of the Angel slightly, but it did not provide full clarity. This body was betraying him again.

For a moment, he could do little more than will his breath to calm, fingers slowly unfurling from their place knotted at his scalp. It took a second more to realize that the Angel was _touching him_ , and his hands fell to weakly grip the wrists that held hands stationed on his face. He pried them away with little resistance, releasing the other like his touch itself was ice, and attempted to press himself more firmly into the wall.

“What happened?” Viktor tried, and his voice was still dripping with all of that grotesque concern.

Yuuri took a moment to orient himself, glancing down at his own body to clarify which one he was staring at. A drop fell against his jeans, prompting him to wipe his fingers along his eyes. He felt the moisture, brows drawing in confusion as he pulled his hand into the blurred view. The evidence was damning—fresh tears glimmering against soft skin, still slipping from lower lids and carving all new trails into his face. He was _crying_ , like a sniveling _human._

He immediately sought composure, shoving himself from the ground to stand unsteadily on his feet. A hand braced itself against the smooth wall behind him, keeping him propped upright even as the Angel began to reach for him in case he fell. Yuuri shot him a glare, a warning growl clawing its way up from his chest. Why was his vision so blurry?

The Angel took a step backward, standing and staring with pants pulled haphazardly to his waist and water still slicking that exposed stretch of marble. The door to the bathroom behind him looked to have been slung wide open, shower curtain sharing a similar fate as the still-running shower pelted against fiberglass. Yuuri continued to glare at him a moment longer, chest still heaving, and then turned his attention to the equally as stunned and concerned Pixie. They were both waiting patiently for an answer, and he’d finally oriented himself enough to comprehend.

“Minako,” he breathed, testing out the name on his Demonified tongue, and he loathed the way his own voice carried notes of affection and nostalgia.

“You remember?” Viktor chanced, and Yuuri couldn’t have placed the emotion in his voice even if he’d cared enough to try. The Angel was certainly a sight to behold at the moment—still disgustingly perfect despite being completely disheveled and sopping wet. He’d probably come barreling into the room the moment he caught wind that something had gone awry. Typical.

He opened his mouth to respond, or possibly just tell Viktor to put on a fucking shirt. He was still a bit breathless with his mind swimming, but a knock on the door had his head snapping to his right with whatever comment that would've chosen to present itself dying abruptly in his throat. A presence, so distinct and poignant that it was a wonder he hadn’t noticed it approaching. He truly must have been out of it. That essence of rot and decay was anything but concealable, so innately Demonic that Yuuri instinctively bared his teeth and growled something absolutely _feral_. No matter how temporary, this was _his_ place of residence and it felt vile to have that be encroached upon.

Viktor seemed to notice it too, if the way he placed himself between the other two present in the room and the door was anything to go by, an arm outstretched as if that alone could prevent Yuuri from ripping the door from its hinges and using it to decapitate the newcomer. Phichit was actively working to put distance between himself and the growing tension, which was wise. Another knock came; louder, more conspicuous. They didn’t have to answer it. Their guest would surely allow themselves in should they see fit.

“I’ll handle it.” Viktor declared, his voice ringing with a level of authority that had another vibration threatening to rip through the clutches of Yuuri’s teeth. Just _who_ did he think he was talking to? “You take Phichit. We can’t stay here.”

“They’re here for me,” Yuuri argued, as though that much wasn’t obvious. Demons had no need to track down Pixies, personal grudges aside, and they certainly wouldn’t go out of their way to confront an Angel unless they had a death wish. “ _You_ take Phichit.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” The Angel replied, though his frustration was far from concealed. He was incredibly tense, Angelic essence flaring as both a warning and a preparation for a quick end to a battle. “They’re possessing a human, and I can’t allow you to harm an innocent life.” Yuuri wondered how he’d managed to glean that much from essence alone; all he could sense was _Demon, Demon, Demon_ on what he’d decided to be _his_ turf.

A thought seemed to occur to Viktor as another, more urgent knock threatened to break the door loose from its hinges, and he turned to Yuuri in an instant. The Angel took hold of his garments before the Demon had time to protest, ripping his coat and one of his undershirts clean open before shoving him to the ground. “ _Follow my lead_ ,” he insisted, whirling back around to snatch the door open before any party could issue protest.

The new Demon met him with an antagonistic smirk, something profoundly pleased dripping into his gaze as he took in the sight of a still-damp, half showered and very disarranged Angel. He had taken the body of a man of looming stature, filling the door frame near about entirely as if the size of his human form was at all intimidating. Likely a younger demon; someone with something to prove that felt the need to compensate for their lack of wingspan by obtaining a large vessel. His eyes dipped to meet the other Demon's, and Yuuri's lips curled in response.

"Am I interrupting something?” Their guest asked, all too sardonic and begging to have his entirety ripped to shreds. “Long time, no see, _Eros_.”

“Just a bit of garbage disposal.” Viktor replied, tone clipped, and Yuuri’s eyes flicked to his back with a searing glare. He would pay for that comment at a later date, however, as their current disposition wouldn’t allow for fighting amongst themselves. “How nice of you to bring the trash directly to me.”

The Demon’s smirk melted into more of a snarl, obviously not taking kindly to being insulted. _Amateur_. “Bite your tongue,” the newcomer hissed, taking a daring step forward. Viktor stood his ground, not appearing fazed by the threat in the slightest, and the other seemed all the more infuriated by it. “We’re working towards a common goal, you and I.”

“You truly _are_ suicidal, then.” Viktor mused. “If the goal of which you speak is to wipe the pesky scum from the Earth.”

But that wasn’t right, was it? All of this hostility, the threat in the Angel’s voice, it was realms away from the way Viktor had addressed Yuuri in their initial meeting. The way he held himself, the tone of voice— _this_ was the righteous fury of an Angel, and it was so, _so_ obviously different than the way he’d acted in that first conversation, or even their spat that morning. It had Yuuri’s wings straining against his back, his power singing in defiant retaliation. _This_ was innately Angelic, and it was highly confusing.

This was the way Yuuri should have been addressed, and it made Viktor’s initial hostility seem like a front put on for show. Why would he threaten this Demon and not Yuuri? What was the difference? It must have had something to do with his vow to protect Phichit; an Angel’s word was their honor, after all.

The Demon wasn’t bothering to contain his malevolence, not in the way Yuuri did. He was brazen, careless—diving heedlessly into white waters without a second glance, and he would soon find himself swallowed whole by a brilliant power crafted to disqualify and shamelessly smother his own. Young indeed, with the untempered arrogance of a fledgling, though unless Lucifer had decided to let every day-old spawn pass through the gates in search of their alleged treacherous kin, that much was unlikely. He made Yuuri appear mild-mannered at worst.

“Oh, but you wouldn’t _dare_ lay a hand on one of your precious humans.” The Demon sneered, and Yuuri was beginning to reconsider whether or not this actually _was_ a fledgling they were met with. How naive could he possibly be? Wasn't he aware how simple it was for an Angel to cast his soul out of that skin? “Hand over the _dissident_ and I’ll spare you the cruelties.”

“You, spare _me_? Come now, you aren’t foolish enough to believe that the flesh you wear makes you invincible.” Viktor scoffed, so incredibly disparaging that it was bordering mockery. Like Father, like son, one could suppose.

There was a flicker of doubt before the Demon lurched, apparently calling Viktor’s bluff. His hands grabbed for the Angel’s throat, but he was caught at the wrists before any true damage could be dealt. The finer aspects of the movements were hard to distinguish through still-bleary eyes, but Yuuri recognized a sharp kick to Viktor’s stomach and a returned wave of noxious divinity which cast the more malevolent of the pair back through the still-clear pathway to the bathroom.

The sound of a body slamming into the wall of the shower was enough to throw Yuuri into action, sparing a glance at Phichit as he pried himself from the floor. The Pixie looked, for the first time, completely somber as he followed the Demon from the room and out into the night. If Viktor wanted to make things more arduous for himself by sparing a single human soul, that was entirely his problem. For now, it was time to move.

The ruckus and hissed promises of death could be heard clearly from the outside, only growing fainter to give way to pounding footsteps as the pair made their escape through the parking lot and down the road. Yuuri’s senses were on high alert, keeping him aware of any unwanted presence that dared to approach. If there was one, there could be more—more intelligent, more methodical, and cunning enough to use a newly trained brother as bait. It would certainly have explained why he would attempt to throw himself headlong into a battle with a former councilman if someone else had fed him misleading statements of security. Thus was the nature of a Demon, after all. Manipulative and unafraid to use _any_ being as a stepping stone.

“Shouldn’t we be helping him?” Phichit demanded, managing to push out words through breaths labored by running.

“No,” Yuuri replied firmly, searching for a place to lie in wait. “If I were to reveal any connection, we’d surely all be damned. Viktor plans to exorcise him, which will just send him relaying information directly back to Lucifer.” A Demon so inclined to act on petty rage wouldn’t last long against an Angel anyhow, regardless of the fact that he didn’t seem to be of impressive stature. He had no tact—the fact that he’d knocked on their door knowing full well that there was an Angel present said as much, and his following actions only proved to reinforce that notion.

That’s why Viktor had ripped his shirt, to make it appear that they were already fighting, but Phichit’s presence alone might prove to have dealt some damage. It was difficult to tell how that would be interpreted, but Yuuri’s instincts told him his fabricated track record would come into play.

“R-right.” Phichit fumbled. He probably hadn’t had time to come to that conclusion on his own with everything moving so instantly. “I’ll break Viktor’s contract for now.” A wise idea, being that freezing solid would inevitably have Viktor slain.

Yuuri snagged Phichit by the wrist, pulling him into an empty parking lot where they could take residence behind a building. It would have to do for now, even if it was void of enclosed walls or coverings. The air was still enough; nothing but stale human stench and the menthol-reminiscent cool air driving nails deep into his throat. The undeniable lingering blur of his vision was nagging at him. He should have been able to see more clearly, even with the dark of night encompassing his figure.

“There may be more.” Yuuri warned. “The gateway rarely opens for one, and we’d be lucky if that pitiful excuse for a Demon wasn’t being used by someone more dastardly.”

“No sense of loyalty down in Hell, huh?” The Pixie managed, doubled over with his hands gracing his knees as he filtered air into his system. He didn’t know the half of it.

Yuuri snorted. “Natural selection.” It sounded cold, even to him. His kind truly _were_ the embodiment of evil, weren’t they? Yuuri supposed it couldn’t be helped—they weren’t born and bred to be friendly. Not to one another and certainly not to man.

It would seem that convenience eluded him. His senses were bleeding alarm, rubbed raw from constant exposure to everything his nature declared to be a threat. Damn that Angelic bastard and his opposing essence, keeping him in a state of poise at every waking moment. Just as he’d assumed, there was another—no, a pair of them, and they were advancing quickly. They'd probably been perched near the hotel, just waiting for the fight to bleed out into the lot. He could feel the raw dread overflowing, filling up the vacant area as two careless souls spread their wings to the open air. Not good.

Phichit could barely contain a hack, crumbling to a knee as he’d done only a day ago when Yuuri had emitted that same concentrated animosity. Unfortunately for him, things were only going to get worse from here. “ _Don’t move_.” Yuuri commanded, and the Pixie froze in a way that couldn’t have been entirely of his own volition.

Yuuri could feel himself unfurling, taking purposeful strides into the lot with wings ripping through their sheath and his several layers of clothing. There was no time to mourn over cloth or blood, nor was there time to assess the repercussions of letting his pride tear through the flesh of this body so forcefully. If there was pain, it was quickly forgotten; drowned out by the thunderous cracks of his own increased weight against pavement even as blood spurted and saturated his garments.

“There you are,” one of the pair hissed, and Yuuri couldn’t help but note that she was entirely too gleeful for someone who was staring their own death directly in the face. The one beside her, slightly taller but still small in frame, bore a somberness mirroring Yuuri’s own.

Possessors, most likely, as they were both scantily clad and seemed not to be bothered by the climate. So much flesh exposed, and it was practically begging to be carved into. Their wingspans were average—mid-grade at best, and hardly comparable to the length of Yuuri’s own. Even still, he needed to be keen. Two of them and one of him, prevailing would be arduous, but it was absolute. He had no other options.

“Interesting choice.” He commented, dry and dull. Manipulation was one of his finer skills, even if he didn’t readily exercise it. This situation, however, was the perfect opportunity to test his muscle memory. Turn them on each other, have this become the all out bloodbath their very souls should _all_ ache for. “I wasn’t aware that Lucifer would need _two_ councilmen to fill my seat.”

The one who’d previously remained silent, a woman with loose blonde pooling at her chest that was just _begging_ to be used against her in combat, bared her teeth. “News traveling fast in the hamster wheel?”

“I know what I need to.” Yuuri replied, coming to a stop with a decent amount of distance between him and the others. They were poised, ready to strike at any moment, but even his marred vision could detect the hesitance and unrest. They were intimidated, as they should be. His wingspan was nothing to scoff at.

“What's this? You’re _scared_ of me?”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri actually choosing to heed his advice provided some level of comfort, though with a Demon practically spitting venom at him, it was hard to cherish the moment. This one was nothing if not tenacious, the Angel would admit, but with such a sloppy and overconfident approach, he was becoming harder and harder to take seriously. Now soaked from the still-running water of the shower and thoroughly antagonized by Viktor’s raw exertion of pure energy, the beast was charging him again.

He managed to deftly evade having a shoulder slammed into his ribs, taking a swift step to the side and catching the Demon by the collar of his shirt. Making quick work of this would be in his best interest, lest Yuuri feel compelled to steal Phichit away to some odd location and make a great escape. It had been hard enough to find him the first time, after all, and he didn’t have Heaven’s omnipotent eyes to his advantage while he was roaming the lands.

With a forceful yank, he managed to throw the malevolent being to the carpet and quickly straddle him. All he needed was to successfully incapacitate him in a way that would cause minimal damage to the vessel’s body and then drive his soul outward and Hellbound. Easier said than done. Every bit as spry as a young Demon should be, the other drove his knees into Viktor’s back and sent him rolling forward. Not good. There wasn’t enough room to dawn his wings here, and moving to the parking lot wasn’t much better of an option. They’d already been too loud—someone was bound to draw their curtains at the sound of scuffling and notice an awe-worthy display of divinity.

What power he could muster with sheathed extremities would have to do. He managed to right himself just in time to be struck in the throat, the bitten nails of a possessed human carving into the flesh of his neck. The next blow came without warning or relent, the shoulder he’d previously avoided slamming into his chest and carrying him back into the shower in what was probably some twisted form of karma. His skull connected with hard fiberglass, a resounding ‘ _crack_ ’ heard over the strike of water against his bare chest. Pity, he was out of practice. Such a weak Demon should never have been able to land an attack on him in the first place.

His hand moved with the guiding pull of muscle memory, seizing the other by the throat just as he attempted to slam his head into Viktor’s own. It was more difficult to maintain his grip against slicked skin, but he managed to put an arm’s length of distance between them, knees extending from where they’d bent over the edge of the tub as he lifted a human of a build much larger that his own to his tiptoes.

“ _I’ll fucking kill you!_ ” The Demon hissed, his hands curling around Viktor’s wrist and forearm with surprising force. Nails bit deep into flesh hard enough to breach the skin, and alternating feet came rising up again to slam into the Angel's bare midsection in an attempt to pry himself free from the Angel’s grasp. " _Disgusting mutt of God, worthless holy bastard._ ”

Viktor grit his teeth, allowing the other to kick and scream and writhe in his hand while he made quick work of gracing the center of his chest. Angelic essence was seeping from his fingertips, driving deep into the tainted ink-dripping soul encompassing that of a defenseless human. “Return to Hell, where you belong,” his voice a command, an acute wave of purity sent through a mass of flesh, tissue, and bone, and striking the center of the beast with every ounce of conviction woven deep into the fibers of his being. “Send my brother my regards.”

The struggle came to slow, pitch talons shaken loose of humanity and sent flying outward. It was bleeding black with a lust for destruction, the faded shadow of a Demon’s hide, all but translucent as it vanished from the open air as quickly as it was driven into it. The human in his grasp fell completely limp, arms and legs hanging Hellward and green eyes staring without seeing into the darkened void.

Viktor sighed, breath escaping a bit too forcefully. His arm lowered, hands seeking purchase beneath the man’s dangling limbs as his head lolled back. If time wasn’t a restraint, he would attempt to find a better location than the hotel bed to place the human in, but that simply wasn’t an option at this point. The skirmish had been too loud; someone may have called the authorities, and the thought of being arrested by Earthen police wasn’t one he was intrigued by.

Viktor repositioned his grip once more, drawing the man’s legs up into his arms as well to bring him to a bed before finally turning off the water. He was well and truly soaked, jeans and all, and his poor white shirt had been thrown onto the slick floor at some point. With a heavy sigh, he turned his attention to the contents of Phichit’s bag which had been strewn across the far bed. The Pixie was smaller than Viktor himself by a decent margin, but his garments would have to do for the time being. He plucked a rosy satin button-down and a pair of too-short pants from the pile, shedding the sopping jeans and quickly redressing himself.

They very well couldn’t stay here now—not after that fiasco, and he assumed their time was minimal before reinforcements would show up, now that their location was known. With all of the thoughtfulness his kind typically possessed, he scooped everything that had been gutted from the Pixie’s bag back into the confines of some—probably—very expensive leather binding and made work of vacating the premises.

It was a witch hunt from here forward, it would seem. The air was stale, providing nothing of worth as to the whereabouts of Yuuri or Phichit. At least with the contract in place, he could count on the pair of them being together. The only issue was _where_.

He wouldn’t have to ponder it for long, however, as the nauseating essence of Demons—likely multiple—overwhelmed his hypersensitive instincts. “ _Derr`mo_.”

 

* * *

 

A vicious snarl—one which could have easily been misconstrued as bloodthirsty should the ever-prominent fear be overlooked. Yuuri arched a brow, his assuredness fueled by the pair’s mounting apprehension. Honey-laced hickory threatened to glow with no chain wrapped firmly around his energy. He could feel darkness humming beneath his skin, the first spikes of song-like notes flooding his being when one of his brethren took an unsure step backward. The smirk, cruel as it was, tugged at the corners of his lips before he had a chance to tamp it down.

It was a perfect picture; his death-dripping and self-satisfied visage, his lithe form all but swallowed whole by outstretched wings that seemed to draw in what little light the waning moon provided. The disruption of that mocking purity was a taste almost _too_ sweet. He wanted to live in that taste, to let it overcome him and turn him into a glutton for discord. _This_ was the infamous exiled Yuuri, the one who dared defy Lucifer himself, and though the truth of that statement was something only he could account for, he absolutely _reveled_ in the way they saw him now.

 _He_ who dared to be so treacherous. _He_ who had the freedom to carve his own path. _He_ who had once been human, and _He_ who dared to be so powerful even still. This was their _Eros_ , chewed up and spit back in their faces. This was who they wanted him to be, and this was who he would give them.

 _Fuck_ feeling sorry for himself for being banished.

“ _Oh_? Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way just to tremble before me.” He taunted, taking a tumultuous step forward. It was a wonder that the ground didn’t split beneath him to allow the flames of Hell to accompany that concentrated enmity. “Tell me, is this the best that Lucifer can do?”

Turning them against one another be damned. He was the embodiment of greed, of hunger. Power-crazed, now that he’d experienced the first drops of genuine reverence to him and him alone. He _wanted_ them to attack him, wanted to see that same horror painted across each of their souls before he crushed them underfoot, and he wanted to see it a thousand times.

“You’re _evil_ ,” one of them, the woman with dark hair, spat. How very astute. She’d done well to initially disguise her fear by appearing cocky, but it was clear now that any confidence she might have had was wavering. Her wings were folding, coming to rest at her back as though every thread of her being was screaming to retreat, to run. She should be so lucky.

“ _I know_.” And he grinned, foot all but cracking the pavement as it snapped against the ground.

“That’s quite enough.”

He growled, thunderous rumble shaking his ribs. _Angels_ , always showing up at the worst of times and ruining any semblance of fun he might have had. He cast a glare sharp enough to cut over his shoulder, the weight of his gaze lifting from the two he’d been advancing on. Apparently, the added presence of divinity stacked against them was enough to have them fleeing into the night with tails between legs.

“You startled my catch,” the Demon remarked dryly, and Viktor met his glare with something like pain and ire.

“Sheathe yourself.” The other ordered, and Yuuri snarled.

Damn him, the self-righteous prick. If he couldn’t have those two, he would _certainly_ substitute for Viktor. Yes, that could do—his power was surging, completely untempered, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d thirsted for blood so truly. The moon's righteousness wasn't enough, he wanted to swallow that toxic essence whole. That was where the true purity was—surely tainting that divine energy would taste much, much sweeter. He wanted it; the pain, the annihilation, the struggle. He wanted to destroy everything, himself included, and he wanted to relish in the satisfaction of pure obliteration. This darkness, it was fast consuming him.

“Go to Hell.” He taunted with a smirk, and the Angel’s scowl deepened.

The Pixie chose that time to stir, staggering from his hiding place and into the open to lean haggardly against the front of the building. Yuuri shot him a warning look, still-lit eyes practically daring him to act. Viktor, unfortunately, caught his line of sight, and the way the idea spread itself across his features was absolutely revolting.

“Stand down, or I’ll take this one out of range and incapacitate you indefinitely.” He threatened, ignoring the aggrieved look the Pixie gave at the prospect of being abducted.

Yuuri was seething at the notion of being denied what he so desperately desired. Could Viktor not see how it was devouring him, the bloodlust? Could he not see that his marred vision was awash with wine? The Demon’s glare met resolute sapphire, saw the individual strings each coaxing him to return to the surface of blackened waters, and they were woven together to form a hoisting hand. It had to be something innately Angelic, this power to calm—it had to be that bright essence he so desperately sought to devour blinding him even through this thick, darkened veil. Right?

Damn him. Of _course_ he would back down from Yuuri’s clear call to action. Of _course_ he wouldn’t allow him to indulge, not even this once. Didn’t he want it too? The power, the fight—to let go of order and conformity and simply be swallowed up by instinct? Didn't he thirst to drown in ink and ash, just as Yuuri thirsted to drown in shining ivory?

Yuuri sighed through his teeth, his power trip meeting its anticlimactic end like a flame snuffed out by sand. His composure was slipping back into place, which gave way to the beginnings of rational thought. His wings began to fold against his back, but not without reluctance. He pointed his blurred glare outward, allowing his pride to retreat beyond the skin that would have so faithfully kept it hidden had it not been torn open thanks to poor judgement. No matter—he would heal.

“Are those my clothes?” Phichit asked, and it seemed like such an outlandish comment to make after the night’s events that it was almost laughable. Yuuri managed an amused snort.

Viktor didn’t appear to have any shame, however. “Yes. Mine were wet, and there was little time.” They didn’t fit him very well, in all honesty. The shirt was too tight and too short, as were the jeans, and if he wasn’t so death-damned perfect, it might have been comical. Yuuri suppressed a sneer. Stupid, perfect, soul-crushing asshole. Being that flawless should be a crime.

“You’re bleeding through my shirt.” And it was a whine, like the _shirt_ was the most important thing to be discussing at the moment. “That’s Giorgio Armani, I’ll have you know.”

Viktor glanced down at his arm, seeing the small blotches of amaranth marring rosy satin. “So I am,” he commented, a bit miffed. Obviously, he hadn’t realized as much, nor did he seem to notice that his neck was also a glowing pink with pinpricks of blood peeking through nail-slashed flesh.

The Pixie groaned, muttering something about a growing list of reimbursements and ‘ _Chris owes me more than I traded for_ ’ under his breath.

 

* * *

 

With their location likely advertised to half of Hell by now, they had little choice but to travel through the night. Relenting would cause a slew of complications that were sure to be more troublesome than the last, and with so much Demonic activity concentrated to one area, Heaven’s soldiers were bound to start filing in. Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder what his fate would be if Viktor’s kin came crashing down. The thought of returning the Angel’s earlier favor of a staged fight and taking on the enemy alone wasn’t one that so readily appealed to him. At least, not when divinity was involved.

In such a small town, there wasn’t much they could do besides walk and hope to reach the next. Transportation wouldn’t be running so late, after all. The most they could hope for was some form of quiescence until the morning. Luck was such a flimsy thing to rely on.

With little else to occupy him, he focused his attention on trying to right his vision, squinting at the dimly lit signs as they passed and grunting when he achieved little success. The Pixie was staring at him, likely trying to figure out what had caused his sudden break in silence. The Demon chose to ignore him in favor of glaring at the open air.

“Are you okay?” Phichit tried, his voice holding an agitating note of worry. He’d been looking at Yuuri as though he were a delicate flower since his untimely collapse in the hotel that evening, as if his earlier exchange with his kin hadn’t happened at all. It was infuriating.

“Peachy.” Yuuri grunted, hissing through his teeth to vocalize that he’d given up on any hope of visual clarity. The force of his effort was making him light-headed, and there was an annoying throb building behind his eyes.

His steps stuttered, feeble body doing as it wished. A recurring theme, and one that he was none too pleased about. The Angel at his other side gave him a look, gaze dripping over the visible parts of the Demon’s face from their current positioning as if assessing for damage. “Are you injured?”

“No,” he replied, still a bit sour that he had been so rudely interrupted before ever having a chance to sink eager teeth into destruction.

Viktor appeared unconvinced; another recurring theme that was beginning to grate Yuuri's nerves. What did they expect? That he would fall to pieces on a whim? He wasn't some dainty thing to be fretted over. He was a Demon, for death’s sake. Regardless of his spiteful thoughts, he felt a hand grace his shoulder, pulling him so that his back faced the Angel.

“You must have ripped your back clean open,” Viktor admonished, and the trio came to a unanimous halt. “You've lost a lot of blood, Yuuri.”

“I'll be fine.” He grunted, freeing his shoulder from the other’s grasp. In truth, he'd forgotten about the damage his vessel had likely sustained from his quick draw, and what should have been pain was more of a nuisance than anything; an itch, or a faint burn.

Viktor ignored his comment, pushing through the torn fabric to assess his skin. It wasn't pouring amaranth like it might have been if he were merely human, and already appeared to have healed quite a bit. Twin lines down his back looked more like angry scratches. Evidently, this body wasn't as useless as he might have thought, because his flesh and tissue were actively working to sew themselves back together.

Yuuri tossed a glance over his shoulder, taking Viktor’s silence as a sign that everything was well. The Angel peered up, meeting his gaze with concern woven into fibers of turquoise. Viktor’s now blood-soaked fingers slipped away from the destroyed garments, falling back to his side as he released a sigh.

“Very well then.” He replied, surging them all back into action. “You should be more careful with yourself. You may not die, but if you keep neglecting to realize that this body is comparable to that of a human’s, it will give up on you until it has time to properly recover.”

Yuuri huffed, indignant. He wasn't a fledgling, he didn't need to be lectured on how to take care of himself. More importantly, “Why do you care?”

Why _did_ he care? Perhaps his choice not to kill Yuuri could be explained away as intrigue, or having ulterior motives, but telling him how to keep himself functional seemed a bit much. Viktor was an Angel, he should want him _dead_ at the very least.

Viktor didn't answer, simply decided to ask a question of his own. “Earlier, you remembered your human life. Am I wrong?” He was deflecting.

That gave Yuuri pause. How much information should he reveal? Even if they weren't necessarily acting like it, he and Viktor were natural enemies. Still, he didn't see how _dance_ could incriminate him. “I remember ballet.”

Viktor hummed in acknowledgement, seeming to dissolve into his thoughts as he’d been doing quite frequently since Phichit’s introduction. The Pixie gave him a look, brows drawn in curiosity. “What exactly was that earlier, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Yuuri answered truthfully, running a hand through his hair without much thought. “It’s only happened once before, the first time I touched the surface realm.” He decided to omit the fact that he’d been made to swear never to look into his human life, and had been given significantly less tasks to carry out on Earth than any other councilman.

But _why_ —that was the question. The relapses, though violent and disorienting as they were, didn’t seem to have much effect on him physically. Okay, so his vision had become a bit blurry, but surely that was simple coincidence. Surely it would clear itself up with time. The first time he’d fallen out, he’d come to completely unscathed.

But even if it _would_ destroy his body, why had he been warned against it? Demons were not ones to save each other from unpleasantries. Quite frankly, most Demons were eager to eliminate one another for the sake of survival of the fittest, and his kin had never had any qualms against trying to step on him to climb their way up the throne. Why, then, had this aspect in particular been driven into him so deeply? These were all questions he’d asked himself before, of course, but now that he wasn’t blinded by loyalty and devotion, they seemed to flow without the hindrance that was remorse.

Whatever he’d done, whoever he’d been, perhaps that had something major to do with it. Even if it meant losing full use of his vision, or if his soul itself began to unravel, he wanted to know. He didn’t want to live in the dark any longer, be sheltered any longer, be fed a certain set of thoughts any longer.

This was Yuuri, the one who dared to _know_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phichit the drama queen, anyone? Also, I don't know if Giorgio Armani has ever made a rosy satin button down. I pulled a color, a fabric, and a designer's name straight out of my ass after doing a quick Google search, prematurely becoming frustrated, and just typing something in. Forgive me, fashion gods. Forgive Phichit for his unnecessary gaudiness while you're at it. He really can't help it, it's instinctual. All the shiny things.
> 
> This chapter was kind of a ride from start to finish. If anyone is heartbroken that Yuuri didn't get to fight in this chapter—do not fret. I originally planned to have him fight, but the story took me in a different direction. Things have only just begun, after all. But what's up with Yuuri's eyesight? Will Viktor and Yuuri ever discuss just what the hell it was that they were fighting over? All in due time, my friends. All in due time. 
> 
> Also, Yuuri's inability to possess humans is highly debatable, because I'm pretty sure he possessed me when I was writing his power trip. I blacked out and then looked at the screen like, "Alright, didn't know I had such a dire need for this." I hope you also had a dire need for some cocky Demon Yuuri basically telling every existing realm to fuck off, he will do as he pleases.
> 
> We're going to not scrutinize me for the trio taking public transportation. Phichit wasn't about to walk his ass from the fucking Arizona desert all the way to Chicago with a Demon and an Angel. Nope.


	4. Mullein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain with a touch of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be the slowest of all slow burns. Demon Yuuri is a difficult one to wrangle. Also, I'm not very happy with this chapter, but oh well. It needed to happen, and I don't have much drive to rewrite it.

They managed to get a decent amount of distance under foot before the sun finally came to rise. It painted the sky with all of the oranges and pinks that Yuuri was accustomed to from his first few Earthen adventures, and the few days immediately following banishment that he’d spent with only his thoughts and the lingering whisper of Angelic essence over his shoulder. Phichit had whined sporadically about being hungry until they came across some twenty-four hour convenience eatery and he demanded they stop. Viktor claimed that the food appeared 'suspicious', whatever that meant. Yuuri had absolutely nothing bad to say about it.

They had, of course, stopped at a marketplace not long after to purchase clothing that was the correct size and that wasn’t ripped to shreds and saturated in then-dried blood. Other than that, there were no interruptions to their stroll, and they eventually found a bus that was departing in the early hours of the morning. Yuuri wouldn't necessarily claim that the lack of foes was a good thing. Quite honestly, he could feel the pressure of all Hell breathing down his neck. He could only imagine how Lucifer was handling the news.

Then again, he was probably lapping up every moment of this cat and mouse game. Sadistic bastard. 

As with before, their transit had been remarkably uneventful. The Pixie had slept through most of it. Yuuri learned the names of three more states they happened to pass through; Texas and Oklahoma were far in the rear view, and they decided to get off the bus in Missouri. Allegedly, everything in Texas was conventionally larger. Viktor found that sentiment to be particularly amusing. Suffice to say that Yuuri assumed the entire state to be gluttonous, even managing to say as much through straying thoughts of Minako and ballet. That comment earned him a chuckle.

And again, they found themselves checking into a hotel room with two beds, a bathroom, and not much else. ‘ _This time if there’s a knock on the door, don’t answer it_ ’, Phichit had said, though Yuuri couldn’t see how having their door kicked off of its hinges by a riled up Demon would have been a much better option. The Angel had huffed in amusement, promising that he would be more alert to danger this time around. That was all well and good, but Yuuri’s eyesight _still_ hadn’t recovered itself, and he was becoming quite frustrated. Well,  _more_ frustrated.

“Alright, what gives?” Phichit demanded, arms crossed over his chest with a brow arched as if Yuuri was being dared not to answer. The Demon in question regarded him with a flat look, not at all intimidated. After a stalled moment, the Pixie merely sighed. “You’ve been squinting and groaning since last night, in that order.”

“How is that much different from his normal disposition?” Viktor jabbed, grinning as though he’d made some marvelously amusing joke. He seemed to be in better spirits today, all things considered. Yuuri glared at him, which probably only served to punctuate his statement, retrospectively.

“My eyes are betraying me.” Yuuri grunted, shifting his gaze to the wall as if they, too, could see the blur through that movement alone. He didn't offer much else by way of explanation, leaving the comment floating in the air until someone chose to comment. 

Phichit’s brow furrowed in confusion, his nose scrunching. “What?”

Perhaps his wording had been strange. He was resigned to the fact that he would be forced to repeat himself quite frequently when it came to the other two, having officially given up after the seemingly unceasing questions about his health the night prior. Honestly, he had been perfectly fine, if not a bit dizzy from either blood loss or sudden lack of visual clarity. It was nothing to hold his hand over. Yuuri tried again to explain, “I can’t see.”

Even from this distance and with the current state of his vision, the Demon could tell that Viktor’s brows drew in response. The Angel shifted to face him completely, one of his legs folding atop the mattress while the other braced his weight against the carpeted floor. “Elaborate.”

Yuuri sighed, throwing his arms up in frustration. Just how many ways could he say that his eyes were not functioning at maximum capacity? He made a vague gesture to the entire room, “It’s all blurry.” He managed not to throw in the multitude of expletives that he’d been tempted to use, which he thought to be a rather ridiculous display of restraint considering the fact that he shouldn’t feel _any_ need to be courteous to these two. They hadn't exactly earned his good graces. “It’s annoying.” He added, and it felt bitterly understated. 

“And that started yesterday?” Viktor continued, appearing entirely too pensive for Yuuri’s comfort. Rosy lips were curved into a gentle frown, confusion forming lines at his forehead only partially visible beneath cloudy bangs. 

The Demon squinted, regarding him warily. How would he know that? “Yes.” Come to think of it, it _was_ around that time that Viktor’s hands had been all over his face. He felt the anger already beginning to broil beneath his skin, coaxing him to leap to conclusions without any semblance of proof. Sue him, he was irritated. “Did you cast some divine hex on me?”

Viktor arched a brow, regarding him flatly. “Just what do you think an Angel’s abilities consist of?”

“Destruction to my very constitution.” Yuuri remarked bitterly, oblivious to the fact that he was pouting. He wouldn’t put it past the workings of Angelic energy to rob him of clear sight—it was precisely the kind of sneaky, agitating thing he found to be entirely too characteristic of Heaven’s militia. He assumed Viktor's snort was supposed to convince him otherwise. Better yet, there was an even less credible being among them who’d already deceived him once before, and he had stayed notably quiet after the mention of his defective gaze. He shifted his attention. “Or perhaps I’ve got a bit of Fairy dust in my eyes.”

Phichit gasped as though appalled. “I am a _Pixie_ , thank you very much." He crowed, always eager to emphasize his species whenever the Demon purposely addressed him as otherwise. "And besides that, what good reason would I have to randomly give you astigmatism? What makes you think I _can_ give you astigmatism?”

Yuuri scowled, but had to admit that Phichit had a point. It would be detrimental to him for anything to obstruct Yuuri’s ability to protect him, after all. Viktor, on the other hand, _should_ want him at a disadvantage; should want to make him easier to incapacitate. Perhaps this had been a part of his plan all along, and he'd simply been waiting for the perfect chance to get his revoltingly flawless hands on Yuuri's skin. Steadily boiling amber shifted back to the Angel, baring his teeth almost petulantly. Viktor merely blinked at him, looking innocuous as ever despite the opposing essence he constantly emitted.

Damn him. He wasn't as holy as he liked to pretend he was. Of that, Yuuri was sure. He had mal-intent buried somewhere deep within, somewhere Yuuri had yet to discover. But once he found it,  _oh_ , what fun they would have tearing each other to shreds. He would expose the Angel for the scheming bastard that he knew he was, and then he would finally expel some of his ever-building aggression. Honeypots were dripping with promises of agony, causing the other's gaze to ice over in an instant. Yuuri allowed a twitch of the lips, a small smirk of satisfaction. His wings were straining beneath his skin, reminding him how close he was to coming completely unglued. With a deep breath, he regained whatever semblance of composure he normally had, any sense of swollen pride dissipating. 

As it would seem, in the time it took for Yuuri to clear Phichit of suspicion and shift his stabbing gaze back to Viktor, a thought had occurred to the Pixie. He was mumbling something incoherent, hardly any language Yuuri could decipher, and digging through his backpack for that manila trove of untold secrets. The worn black folder was pulled free of its leather encasement and tossed onto the comforter without ceremony. Phichit peeled it open, digging through bundles of photocopies in search of something in particular. The Demon had no guesses as to what. 

“I’d thought it might’ve just been part of your guise…” Phichit began, trailing off as he swiped his tongue along the pad of his thumb in order to sort through his pages more efficiently, “but now I think it may have been just the opposite.”

Viktor peeked over Phichit’s shoulder as he laid out entire packets of information, sorting everything into stacks and digging through for evidence of something undisclosed. Yuuri frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think in your last life, you wore glasses.” The Pixie mused, eyes shifting between the file and the Demon present as if to compare the two. “That doesn’t really explain why you’d suddenly start losing your sight now, though.”

Come to think of it, he'd known as much. He saw the ghost of blue frames in his reflection the first time he'd ventured to the surface. He'd never put much thought into that particular part of his first vision—the focus had always been on the more sinister aspects. But Phichit was right, that  _didn't_ explain why he would suddenly lose his sight after burning in Hell for a full millennium. Even if it had something to do with his human vessel, shouldn't he have had problems with his sight from the first moment he stepped foot in the Earthen realm? 

Viktor hummed, which brought everyone’s attention directly to him. “What is it?” Yuuri demanded, eyes narrowed out of skepticism rather than the fact that he could hardly see.

The Angel was silent a moment, simply staring at whatever was on the paper Phichit was holding. The Demon was growing impatient, and the content of the file was spurring his curiosity. If the Angel wouldn't explain, he would simply see for himself. He took a step forward, causing Viktor to finally look up at him. There was something wistful melting that gelid stare, whispering of tales untold. It was disarming. Yuuri halted.

“It’s your soul.” Viktor decided, catching the other completely off guard.

“My soul.” He repeated dryly, sounding utterly unconvinced. “My eyes declared mutiny because of my _soul_.”

Viktor blinked, looking as though his vague explanation of just what the hell was even _happening_ should have been sufficient enough not to elaborate on. If Yuuri had anything more substantial than a hair trigger, he might have realized that the Angel was simply confused, and was not looking at him like he was an idiot. Unfortunately, Yuuri was a bit biased and more than a bit defensive, and he bristled at what he mistook for condescension lurking in those glacial hues. He could hardly contain a growl, opening his mouth to spit some venomous comment when the other cut him off.

“Your soul is yearning,” the Angel began carefully, wariness heavy in his words as though he was unsure of whether or not he should really be explaining at all. “Though it’s a bit difficult to explain why with so few details. What do you remember about your life?”

There was that question again. Was it out of necessity that he was asking, or did he have an ulterior motive? Perhaps he was curious, though curiosity alone didn't seem a viable explanation at this point. Maybe Viktor was fascinated by the fact that Yuuri was remembering pieces of his previous life. Maybe Viktor knew nothing of his own previous incarnation, or perhaps it was his first life, and maybe that's why he continued to poke and prod for details that simply weren't there. Maybe that's why he'd let Yuuri live so long, just to satisfy his own strange craving for information.

And yet, he still didn’t know how much he should reveal—how much he _could_ reveal. He didn’t exactly have a wealth of knowledge, after all. There were things he knew, but it seemed that the more important details eluded him. What would it take for those memories to resurface? Could he tug at the threads of his own mind in hopes that it would unravel, or was he at the complete mercy of visual and audio stimulants when it came to these visions?

Despite himself, he gave in. He wanted to know why in death’s name his vision was so agonizingly blurred, and if this was what it took to figure it out, so be it. “Nothing particularly notable. I remember a room with white walls, being bound to a chair, and a man asking me questions.” It was stated so casually, as if you'd asked him what the weather was like in Hell. 

Viktor’s brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Questions?”

Yuuri nodded, although not without a fair amount of hesitation. Why was that relevant? It had nothing to do with his sight. “He’d asked me why I stopped… doing whatever it was that I did.” He still wasn't sure what that had been either, but he could safely assume that it was something especially devious.

“Ah, I suppose you should know.” Phichit piped up, interjecting into the conversation. Yuuri’s gaze swiveled to accommodate him, noticing the apprehension lingering in his slate eyes as he debated whether or not telling him would be a good idea. Likely seeking to avoid another _flashback_ , or however one might describe it. The Demon motioned for him to continue. “You were a mercenary.” Yuuri’s brows drew in confusion, though not at the term. He knew it well. “A butcher for hire, and quite the esteemed one at that. Your killings were… _artful_.”

The word ‘artful’ danced on the Pixie's tongue as if it had been saturated in honey and then rolled in confectioners sugar. It was distinctly out of place, almost _too_ flattering. He supposed that meant he had a particular style, one which people would have likely paid top dollar for, and one that the aforementioned 'cults' were actively attempting to replicate.

Yet there was no overwhelm, no melting room and no white static. No panic, no memories, no emotion. Just a simple statement of occupation and nothing more. 

“I suppose that makes some amount of sense,” the Demon mused, but he couldn’t help but feel he was missing quite a few significant details. A death count alone, unless he managed to single-handedly commit mass genocide, couldn’t have had him reincarnated as a Demon, could it? Even if Phichit's sentiment alluded to the fact that he might have been particularly brutal, he wasn't convinced that killing and killing alone had his soul reincarnating as one of Lucifer's henchmen. “He wanted me to continue killing people, then.” He stated, deadpan.

“And that’s all?” Viktor asked, his urgency to move the conversation forward not going unnoticed. Angels, so quick to exterminate Demons and yet so easily squicked out by the mention of dead humans. Wretched hypocrites.

Yuuri shook his head. “As I've told you before, I remembered ballet.” _And Minako_ , he didn’t add for fear of that dreaded affection slipping back into his voice. It was grating him, how tenderly he felt for his long-deceased instructor. She’d been something of a relative—he was able to gather that much about her existence through what he'd recovered.

Because the thing with this latest occurrence was that the initial dam burst was simply that: a dam burst. There was a wave, all of these recollections with such force and pressure behind them that he couldn’t help but be swept away, be bowled over and practically drowned by his own soul’s… _yearning_. Disgusting word for the feeling, he might add. To think that any part of him longed for what his human incarnation left behind was sickening. 

And then the finer details, the little snippets of related memories, trickled in without much gusto. They were little more than notes his mind made; his first lesson, his first competition, a newly perfected skill here and there, his last competition. And in each one, there she was, her violent emotions nothing short of jarring when they were entirely fixated on him, be they positive or otherwise.

The very first recollection, however, seemed to have met a screeching halt precisely where he’d been shaken from it. _You’ve met your match, Katsuki_ , and nothing truly noteworthy after that declaration. It did not continue to feed him information like ballet had. It barely gained any pretense, the vague questioning being the only thing his mind could surmise from the interaction. He couldn’t even place a name to that face—that arrogant, twisted human face.

“It might be considered a stretch, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.” Viktor sighed, placing his hands on his hips as though to say he wasn’t entirely sold on the idea himself. “A soul is a soul, transportable through lives and realms without losing its defining characteristics.”

“But if that were true, my vision should have been a problem from the beginning,” the Demon challenged, stopping the other in the middle of his explanation. He had retained his same face, same body, same eyes, so why would it become an issue only now?

“Not necessarily,” the Angel countered, and Yuuri idly wondered who had led Viktor to believe that he was an expert. “Severe trauma can alter a soul, or repress some of those defining characteristics. I’m assuming your recent revelation is to blame for your soul’s, ah, _awakening_.”

Awakening. Of all the words to describe why his sight has decreased in clarity, _a soul's awakening_ seemed entirely too… positive. Had the pieces of his soul that made up who he was been stashed away somewhere within? How was he to know now, a thousand years of hellfire and agony later, who he was? And if this happened to be the reason he was forbidden from following the pull of his soul, it seemed rather anticlimactic. Not to mention foolish. Something as simple as recovering aspects of his personality, how could that destroy him?

He couldn’t help but be suspicious—there were things he didn’t know, things they didn’t _want_ him to know. But _why, why, why_? What was missing? _What_ didn't he know? Just what had really happened to Katsuki Yuuri?

“Severe trauma.” Yuuri repeated, blinking. His mind went back to the white room, to the twisted smirk splitting a human face in ways he never knew it could; to the dark hair and dull eyes. He thought of the wall he'd hit in his memory, of how he'd pushed against it for so long only to find himself at a loss after the cooing of his own name. And yet, he could hardly imagine anything happening to him on Earth that might’ve ever compared to the perpetual torture of Hell. Perhaps souls tended to be influenced by their current incarnation. Humans were so feeble, so frail. He had no doubts about how easy it was to traumatize a human. Had his soul been so weak once?

Was that truly the reason for all of this—for the violent relapses, for the apparent blandness of his personality, for his visual recoil? Could it be as simple as _trauma_?

“So basically,” Phichit started, holding out a hand as if trying to put all of the pieces together himself, “you’re saying that our souls stay the same when we go through each life, but something truly awful must’ve happened to Yuuri to make him,” he gestured with his hand, “less _himself_?”

Less himself. Who was he, really? He had a bitter heart and a vicious temper, as a Demon should. He was somewhat powerful, generally thought of as intelligent and tactful, and blissfully apathetic, as a Demon should be. The only true craving he’d ever had was for knowledge and for status; he wanted to prove himself as someone not to be taken lightly. Just as a Demon should. But those things, he’d never thought of them as impersonal until now. His own words seemed to be throwing themselves in his face now; ' _Demons are not spawned from a carbon printer_ ,' he'd told Viktor. And it seemed ironic, because he was beginning to realize that  _Demon_ was the only thing he could see in himself.

Did he know himself? No, he supposed he didn't. His most outstanding trait might have been his apathy, which kept him from being positively volatile every moment of the day. Was this who he was, or who he’d been shaped to be?

' _You're different from the others_ ,' Viktor had said. He found himself wondering what that meant. He  _wasn't_ different, not really. What had Viktor meant when he said that?  _Had_ he meant it?

“As I’ve said, it’s only a theory.” Viktor said after a moment, pulling Yuuri from the maelstrom that was his mind. The Demon stared at him, molasses dripping over every inch of his face as he attempted to place the emotion there. Viktor turned, eyes softening when he met Yuuri's curious gaze. He looked at Yuuri like he was something delicate, and the Demon couldn't help but wonder  _what_ it was that Viktor saw. Perhaps he would ask, should they find themselves alone.

“But it’s a good one.” The Pixie urged, taking a seat on the bed. He was staring pointedly at the floor now, thoughts whirling around his head as he attempted to weave together what he knew about Yuuri's past and current lives. “I don’t remember my past incarnation, who or _what_ I was. I’ve never had any memories.”

The Angel nodded, turning back to address the other. “That’s common as well. Few remember their previous incarnation, or even if it existed. The ones who do usually chalk it up as nothing more than a dream, or deja vu, but to have waking memories… It’s almost unheard of.” His gaze swiveled back to Yuuri, who was eyeing him carefully now. How did Viktor know all of this, anyhow? Was it something that all Angels were versed in? The other couldn't help but feel he'd been left in the dark.

“I do know one thing,” Phichit piped up, and this time his eyes were speaking words untold to Viktor alone. “I was human once too, however many lives ago.” The Angel shifted, curiously lifting a brow. “And from what little I gathered about that incarnation, it seems the soul does carry specific traits between lives.” His words had been chosen carefully, some secret conversation taking place between the pair that Yuuri couldn't hope to decrypt.

“How do you figure?” Yuuri inquired. He wanted to know what it was they were discussing privately, wanted to know what it was that he'd been neglected all his life.

Phichit opened his mouth to answer, and then seemed to reconsider. The Pixie shifted in his seat, holding up a finger as if asking Yuuri to wait while he thumbed through bundled stacks of paper. “I think you should probably see for yourself,” he replied, pulling out the group of information he was searching for and handing it over without another word.

Yuuri took the pages from him, eyes catching on the portrait of a smiling _human_ Phichit. He looked about the same, perhaps a touch younger with loose bangs and sans the gaudy accessories he tended to wear now. He could clearly see that same pinch of mischief, though it seemed muted in comparison to the Pixie he'd come to know over the past few days. Something twisted in his gut; something oddly foreboding. He pulled the picture from the clip and set it aside, skimming over a 'Detroit' newspaper article detailing a con job of legendary proportions, though it was credited to no man. He flipped to another page, which explained theories of Phichit’s supposed involvement in the exploit even though nothing could be directly traced to a single person. He wondered if the Pixie had drawn these comparisons himself, or if this was someone else's work. 

The next page had another picture, so pixelated that Phichit’s face was just barely distinguishable. He was seated across from a man, though only his back was visible. The writing beneath the photograph was in those same somehow-familiar characters, translating to: ‘ _Phichit Chulanont meets with Katsuki Yuuri to discuss target Nekola_ ’.

And the world was tilting, tilting, _tilting_. That vignette settled in, creeping in to swallow his already-marred vision as the room melted away. The calls of his name were muted, fading into the ivory static claiming his ears. His back hit the wall he was standing nearest, eyes wide as the carpeted floor gave way to a polished wooden table top. He was sitting. To the right of his clasped hands, a steaming mug of coffee—dark roast, no sugar, no cream. The noise of a busy diner built up like a passing train, his eyes trailing up to meet Phichit’s; lively, full of a fondness and warmth all too familiar. He felt like his ears had suddenly popped, familiar blue frames sitting delicately on the bridge of his nose.

“Come on, stop thinking about work,” Phichit chided, playfully smacking his joined hands. “You promised that we would just _hang out_ , like we used to in college.”

Right, like they used to. They’d been friends for how long? Years, he supposed. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” his own voice sounded traitorous to his ears, like he had genuine remorse for having been distracted. After all, he owed Phichit his full attention, especially after everything they'd been through, after everything he'd put him through. What all was that again?

He could hardly remember it now, feeling such overwhelming guilt for something left unsaid between the pair of them. He did know one thing, though. This man in front of him, he would do anything to keep him safe. He would do anything to ensure his happiness and health, anything to preserve his smile. He didn't deserve the luxury of his kinship, no, but he could hardly call himself a selfless being. 

“No worries,” Phichit chirped, offering a beaming smile before taking a sip of his own dreadfully sugary drink. Yuuri felt his chest tighten at the other's cheerfulness, at how he managed to stay so positive even knowing what cruel, unforgiving world they lived in. “There’s a new movie coming out, if you’re not busy…”

The latter half of his sentence melted away, and within a blink, the scene changed. He was standing in the bathroom of a small apartment, hands gripping the porcelain sink as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the Earth. His own breath came in short pants, stomach white hot with a feeling so achingly familiar. What was this again? Was it panic, anxiety? Hardened amber met its own gaze in the mirror, drinking in his thoroughly perturbed visage with a considerable amount of detachment. His hair slicked back, no vibrant blue framing his blanched face to draw attention from the darkness beneath his eyes. He looked hollow, carved out clean. The cardinal staining his attire—a crisp white shirt and a new tailored suit—tugged his eyes downward in accommodation. He breathed a trembling sigh, head falling to his hands.

He’d cleaned up his face and arms in the bathroom, and had obviously put his coat on over his ruined clothing, before coming home, but now he would have to make arrangements for this outfit to be burned. He couldn't stomach to look at it anyhow. He remembered it, how frighteningly personal this job had been. Many years ago, he might have denied such a request to have made an intimate mess of a target. He’d have declined, stating that he only worked from afar; stating it was because of his personal safety and not because he was too mentally weak to torture, to dismember, to paint the walls a vibrant amaranth. He wondered what had changed, when he’d become so numb to the screams, the pleads, the _life_ he was taking in exchange for money in his pockets.

Was it worth it? To see that look in the man’s eyes, to rip him apart in his own home, to distance himself so far from his own humanity for the sake of a paycheck? Was it worth it? Coming to America under the guise of a student, cheating his way through an education he could never put to good use? Was it worth it? Putting everything on the line each and every time he stepped out of the house, wearing death's face like a mask and carrying arms and knives like scythes?

Yes. Yes, yes. The answer would always be yes. It was worth it, because this was the only way he could hope to protect and support his family when their business was going under. At least now, now that he was already in it, this was the only way. This was the life he’d stumbled into, and he knew that there was no way out now. He would surely die before he could ever dream of abandoning this life. His family would suffer, and it would be _his_ fault for being so weak. So, if you asked him if it was worth it, he'd say yes. A million times, he would say yes. Through broken teeth and mouthfuls of blood, through shattered bones and trench-shaped wounds, rip him open and tear him apart—he'd only say, ' _Yes_.'

He heard the doorknob turn, his heart climbing up his throat and his eyes snapping to the side before he had a chance to move. The visage of his roommate, still half-asleep and with dark hair sticking up at odd angles, seemed to create a delay in time. His breath died abruptly in his lungs. He watched, unmoving, as slate eyes belonging to the one he had the _audacity_ to call his best friend blinked in recognition, thick brows drawing in concern as he rushed to pull Yuuri to face him.

“Oh my god, Yuuri! Are you okay?” His voice a demand, though cushioned by the warmth of concern. Warmth that Yuuri didn't deserve, because he was a fucking murderer. “Oh fuck, that’s a lot of blood. You need to go to the hospital. What _happened_?”

“It’s okay, it’s not mine.” He heard himself say, but the scene was changing again. His reassurance fell on deaf ears, his hand remaining lifted to grasp someone who was not there as his eyes adjusted to the new image.

Another room, the same apartment. Phichit was trembling, glaring at him from several feet away, tears streaming freely down his face as he demanded an answer to a question Yuuri couldn’t remember until his own mouth started moving.

“Yes,” he muttered simply, and he hardly registered the tears slicking his own flesh. His voice had broken, his hands trembling as he suppressed everything he wanted to say; _I’m sorry, I’m not evil, I should go, I’m sorry_. He had no right to cry. He had no right to show weakness, to paint the visual of humanity he'd lost the very first time he'd sent a bullet through someone's chest at eighteen.

He heard his best friend—his _best friend_ , someone he cared for so, so deeply—draw in a breath, forcing anger into his shaking voice as he demanded, “Why, Yuuri?” He didn't scream, didn't call him names, didn't call the police. But he should have.

It seemed like such an odd question. _Why_? Why did he kill? Why did he lie about it? Why, why, _why_ ? To provide for my family, to protect you, because there is no escape and I _fucked up_ when I was young and senseless. “Because I wanted to.” And it was a lie. Lie after lie, after lie.

“ _Hah_ !” Phichit huffed, dry and utterly mirthless. He threw up his hands, incredulous. The resounding ' _smack_ ' as his hands collided with his legs was enough to make Yuuri flinch, for reasons unknown to him. “You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you? You, Yuuri _fucking_ Katsuki, expect me to believe that you’re a killer because it’s _fun_? For the love of God!”

He bit his lip, eyes falling to the hardwood beneath his shoes. It would have been so much easier for Phichit to just hate him, to give in to the resentment he had to be feeling in that moment. Yet there he was, still placing all of his faith in Yuuri’s character, and for what? What reason did he have? Yuuri swallowed the thick dread embedded in the walls of his throat. He couldn't respond, didn't know what there was to say.

“If someone’s making you do this…” Phichit started, then shook his head. “How many times could you have died by now, Yuuri?”

He’d lost count. The number of times he was on the receiving end of a gun, the number of times he'd had hands wrapped around his throat, the number of hits that were  _still_ on his head. He'd lost count.

“How many families have you destroyed?”

He’d lost count. The number of faces with lost names begging him to reconsider, to think of their children, their wife, their husband, the number of people who'd gone silently in the dead of the night to never return home, the number of obituaries that had been written because of him and him alone. He'd lost count.

“How long have you been suffering alone like this?”

And the room was changing again, fading out into a blackening vignette. The feeling was similar to falling, as though his body had gone completely lax and there was nothing to do but collapse. He couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. He felt soft pressure against his cheek, the palm of a hand, and felt himself pressing into it before his instincts could yank him away. He blinked, labored breaths causing his chest to rise and fall erratically as the comfortless blur of his vision returned. The newly painted scene was of the hotel; two small beds, a nightstand, and the bathroom was to his right. Beside him, an Angel coaxing him to relax with gentle words and careful hands, and a worried looking Pixie standing not far away.

No—not a Pixie. It was Phichit, his best friend—someone he cared for so deeply, so truly. He was moving before he had a chance to clear himself from the haze, pushing himself to his feet and pulling the Pixie into a hug with a sigh of, “Oh, Phichit. I’m so sorry.” He ignored the moisture at his cheeks, burying his face in the other's hair as he muttered, "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. It was my fault, everything. _Everything_."

“It’s—uh—it’s okay?” Phichit tried, awkwardly patting the Demon’s back in what was decidedly a foul attempt at reassurance.

Yuuri released him after a moment, holding the other at arm’s-length by the shoulders. “You’re not him,” he whispered, a sad smile accompanying his freely falling tears. He whispered it as if to remind himself, and his hands fell to his sides with a resounding _'smack'_. Ah, that’s right. This wasn’t _his_ Phichit, no matter how similar they looked, no matter how similar they sounded. This wasn’t Phichit Chulanont, one of the greatest con men to ever live and the best damn friend and partner he could have ever asked for. This was Phichit Chulanont, Pixie, esteemed merchant, and master of leading people astray. For the right price, of course.

His Phichit was long dead, and he would never see him again. He wasn't sure if this is what heartbreak felt like.

 

* * *

 

After a revolting display of raw affection for someone who no longer existed (and projected onto someone who knew nothing about Yuuri except what he’d gathered from some cultist worship site), Yuuri felt quite nauseated with himself. The other two had graciously spared him the embarrassment of an explanation, each party simply finding their way to sleep until the morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains. He'd stayed up a while longer, staring up at the ceiling with an inexplicable lump in his throat and an endlessly hollow feeling in his chest. 

One final bus ride took them from Missouri to Chicago, Illinois, where they were now walking on their way to rendezvous with the aforementioned _Christophe_. Phichit mentioned that they were going to a bar, which had served to make Viktor chuckle and comment on how predictable that seemed to be. Yuuri was hardly paying attention, his thoughts straying to the ever-present trickle of memories regarding his friendship with Phichit.

For reasons unknown to him, each memory of a quiet night in a shared apartment brought him pain. He remembered everything so clearly now, how he'd kept his profession from his roommate in order to protect both of them, how many times he'd come home late to find his best friend sleeping on the couch after waiting up for him, how much he'd put Phichit through in the name of saving his family. What a fool he'd been to think that he could keep Phichit from that world. 

He remembered their many fights, how they'd ended in sobs and broken apologies and ' _please Yuuri, don't keep doing this to yourself_ '. He found himself counting the amount of times he'd heard the words ' _if not for you, then for me_ ' and ' _you're not this monster, I know you're not_  ' and ' _not you, god, not you, please_ '. He remembered how many times he'd broken Phichit's heart, how they'd eventually had to break their lease and find their own separate apartments because neither of them could function around each other anymore. He remembered how much more detached and cruel he became promptly afterward, how his work progressed into what was undoubtedly the legend told amongst his followers today.

He remembered how they didn't talk for months, how alone and distant he felt despite knowing that there was no one to blame but himself. He remembered that first call after so long, Phichit's voice telling him that he had a plan he'd drawn up for a quick scam job. He remembered how they progressed after that, never quite recovering the effortless bond they'd had at first, but still trusting in one another enough to work together as allies. He remembered how he'd ruined his best friend's life in so many ways, when all he'd wanted was to protect him from that world. He supposed it was a fair trade—he took the lives of many cherished people, so it was only natural that the one person he was closest to would end up just as damned as he was.

Except he wasn't. That provided some form of relief. Phichit hadn't ended up in Hell, and Yuuri could be grateful for that.

“There’s something I have to confess,” the Pixie piped up, capturing the Demon’s full attention. “This wasn’t about protection, not really.”

Viktor arched a brow. “Oh?”

“I was originally looking for _you_ ,” he gestured to Viktor, “as a favor for Chris, but when I came across Yuuri as well…” He paused, smiling rather apologetically, “I knew we were affiliated in my past life, which is how I had all of this information in the first place. It was kind of self-serving, I’ll admit.”

Despite himself, Yuuri offered an amused snort. “You always were good at being deceptive,” he muttered under his breath.  _And good at finding me_ , he didn't add.

Phichit’s eyes softened a bit. “I wish I could remember.” Yuuri waved him off without a word, refusing to reminisce on raw memories of himself and his closest friend in life any longer. He was a Demon, for death’s sake, he didn’t have any right feeling so tortured over a man of his distant past—a man who didn’t technically belong to _his_ past at all, but a version of himself that was long, long gone.

Besides, it was probably for the best that Phichit didn't remember.

The smell struck him just before the wave of nausea, the strong vanilla-reminiscent scent of mullein enough to have him placing a hand over his nose. His thoughts were efficiently disturbed, that dreadful scent cutting through any serenity he might have had. He choked back a gag, his steps slowing to a halt as he fought not to double over and retch. Now that— _that_ was familiar, and entirely unwelcome. His hesitance was met with a turn of head from both parties, Phichit crossing his arms over his chest with a questioning look while Viktor looked as though he was fighting off a smirk. Damn Angelic bastard.

“ _Mullein_ ,” he hissed, hardly able to force the word between his teeth through the overwhelming nausea and the saliva practically flooding his mouth. The sudden change in mood might have been comical if it were to have happened to  _anyone_ but him. 

“It’s this one, then.” Viktor pointed to a door, looking to Phichit for confirmation and receiving a nod. Outside the door of a decent-sized venue were rows of potted plants, fuzzy stems reaching upward with yellow flowers in bloom, and looking distinctly out of place on the sidewalk. “That’s Chris for you.”

Yuuri glared at him—glared at both of them—with the rage of hellfire poorly contained in melting amber. “Don’t tell me your _dear friend_ actually believes that _plants_ will save him from Demons.” He crowed, though it was hardly convincing given the way he was quite literally gagging.

“Oh? But you seem quite docile compared to usual.” Viktor hummed, placing a stupidly perfect finger to his stupidly perfect lips. And oh, he was just _so_ smug! “I doubt you’d hurt a fly, Yuuri.”

Yuuri bared his teeth at him, one hand creeping to circle his stomach. “Care to test that theory?”

Viktor placed his hands up in mock surrender, Phichit watching the exchange without inclination to conceal his amusement. “I’d rather you didn’t vomit on me.” He crooned, his grin something terribly mocking and oh so infuriating. “Though it looks like you may have bigger issues,” he continued, pointing to the frame of the door.

Yuuri squinted, his vision still impaired on account of the fact that he couldn’t easily march into an optometrist’s office and demand for a prescription to take to the optician. Even so, he could make out the metal skirting around the wooden door, embellished with gemstones. He arched a brow. “Iron?” He assumed as much, if the mullein was anything to go by. “The stones are a bit much,” he added. _A_ _nd gaudy_ , he didn’t add.

Phichit snorted. “I just thought it was part of his peculiar tastes,” he admitted.

“This is discrimination.” Yuuri grunted, glaring at the transparent field working to both repel him and bar him from entering. His gaze swiveled back to the others, ire still as present as ever. “Oh, whatever shall I do? I suppose this is the end of the road for me, somehow you’ll live on.” He mocked, rolling his eyes.

“Come now, I’m sure we can put in a good word for you.” Viktor cooed, still looking entirely too jovial about the entire situation. “After all, I’m sure Chris has some very _soothing_ motherwort he wouldn’t mind parting with.”

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” Yuuri hissed, doing his best to right his posture. It was a lot cause, as a gentle breeze brought another nauseating breath of mullein his way. His palms found his knees, head hanging towards the sidewalk as he coughed.

“Wouldn’t I?” The Angel hummed, turning only to ask Phichit to fetch Chris. The Pixie obliged, strolling through the door with ease and returning a moment later with another strange smelling creature. Not an Angel, that’s for sure.

Yuuri picked up his head in time to see the now infamous Christophe pulling Viktor into a hug, the Demon’s brows drawing in scrutiny at the sight. Where did they get off being so chipper when he felt he might actually collapse on the concrete? It was a moment before they parted, jade eyes glinting with fondness beneath impossibly long lashes as the newest addition to their ragtag brigade issued statements of greeting and expressed how much he missed the Angel. Viktor returned the messages in kind, and that in itself was almost enough to elicit another gag.

Chris turned his attention to Yuuri, all friendly demeanor dissipating as he met the Demon’s harsh glare with a pair of narrowed eyes. “And who might this be?”

The Demon opened his mouth to answer, but Phichit swiftly cut him off. “A friend.” He assured, placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder as if to reassure him. The other turned to him, one thick brow drawn in disbelief, and Yuuri couldn’t help but share in the sentiment. _A friend?_ That was severely overstated on the Pixie's part, he felt. “He’s not so bad. Maybe a little grumpy.”

Chris glanced back to Yuuri, then to Viktor, who offered a simple nod. With a sigh, his cold visage melted into more of a mischievous grin. He took a few steps forward, offering Yuuri a hand to shake. “Christophe Giacometti, I own the bar.”

“So I’ve heard,” Yuuri replied, assessing the proffered greeting at length before deciding to peel himself from his knees for a handshake. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

The widening of eyes was almost imperceptible, as was the growth of his smirk. “Is that so?” He asked, tossing a glance back over his shoulder at the pair closer to the door. “A pleasure to finally meet you, _mon cheri_.”

Considering the fact that walking through the front entrance to the bar was officially out of the question, Chris led Yuuri and the others to the back entrance. The door there was laced in Demon repellent as well, but there was a removable window grate that allowed him entry with some finagling. He grumbled for the entirety of his climb, muttering in Hebrew about ‘ _miserable creatures with unreasonable paranoia_ ’ and ‘ _all I wanted was to be alone_ ’.

Viktor was quick to inform him that Chris was a Siren, not a miserable creature, and did so in English so that the others present were aware of the precise nature of his mutterings. Yuuri responded with a heated glare, swallowing his curious comments about whether or not Sirens were supposed to have fins and lure men to their deaths, not into a bar for profit. Capitalism truly must have been doing a number on the creatures of this realm; first Phichit and his shiny things, and now a greedy Siren luring in drunkards for a quick buck. He supposed he was in no position to complain, however. After all, he wasn’t exactly a model student of what a Demon should be, now was he?

And then there was the Angel, a true enigma all his own. Perhaps Yuuri was wrong, and everything he’d heard about Angels being barred from colluding with other beings—Pixies and Sirens, for example—had been a myth. Even still, the fact that Yuuri was _still alive_ was highly suspicious given that Viktor hadn’t tried to pry any information from him beyond the nature of his relationship with Lucifer. Perhaps none of them were model students.

“Care for a drink, good Doctor?” Christophe purred, slipping back behind the bar to grab a glass and a bottle of amber liquid.

Viktor laughed, taking a seat and offering a sly grin as confirmation. Yuuri arched a brow at the nickname, taking his seat a few chairs away and propping his chin up with an arm. He couldn't be surprised about the Angel accepting alcohol if he tried—what rules _didn't_ Viktor break? Phichit seated himself next to Yuuri, thanking Chris when he slid two glasses in front of the Demon and the Pixie.

“And what will you be having?” Chris asked, his voice something sickly sweet and honey dripping as Yuuri supposed it should be. He did well to fit the role of enchanting with olive eyes all whispered promise and with the slight song to every word pouring from his mouth. Was this how he kept his business running, by being manipulative? That was a question that hardly needed answering.

“I’ll take Grey Goose,” Phichit answered before glancing at Yuuri, “Do you drink?”

“I used to,” he muttered, his memory telling of nights of champagne and shots during his human years. Most of the drinks were tied to nameless faces he’d ended up mercilessly slaughtering, but a few clear memories of drinking with his version of Phichit came to mind. “House whiskey?” He tried, receiving a charming smile from the bar’s owner in response.

“I’ll do you one better,” the Siren replied, grabbing the bottle still resting just behind the counter from where he’d poured Viktor’s drink. “ _Glendronach 18_ , a personal favorite.”

Yuuri nodded, thanking him quietly before taking a sip. It was pleasantly abrasive in taste; not quite as good as human food and yet still worlds away from the slop served in Hell. He downed it without much thought, and Chris placed his chin in his palm as he poured him another glass. He was watching him with half-lidded eyes, expression revealing something all too mischievous to be coy. The Demon regarded him with a fair amount of suspicion, especially when Phichit started cracking up beside him.

“I think I’m still missing a drink,” the Pixie reminded, jabbing Chris in the shoulder with a finger. The Siren picked himself up from where he’d been leaning, offering a wink and blowing a kiss before setting the bottle down to grab another filled with transparent liquid.

Yuuri downed his second drink, ignoring the amused looks the other three were giving him as he did so. “You should probably pace yourself. Chris is going to fill up your glass just as soon as you knock it back at this rate.”

The Demon scoffed in response, setting an empty glass on the bar with care not to break it. “And why should that worry me?” He was a Demon, not a college student. Surely he had nothing to worry about.

Surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mullein and motherwort are plants used to ward off Demons and evil spirits. Iron is also useful, but gemstones are pretty low powered, hence why Yuuri said they were a bit much.  
> Also, Chris basically goes mer-man when he gets in the water, lol. Just to kind of explain a little.
> 
> Did anyone catch that Yuuri used his full name when introducing himself this time, despite how he previously mentioned his family name being discarded when he was reincarnated? ;) 
> 
> God bless Chris. I just really love him, and Phichit too. They're adorable. This chapter was sloooow but I promise the next one will be....... interesting, to say the least. Three cheers for Yuuri experiencing positive emotions for 0.2 seconds even though he still finds them disgusting (he doesn't find them all that disgusting tbh, he's just stubborn). Even though he tries to deny it, he can't help but like Phichit substantially more now. My heart breaks for my Demon bab.
> 
> I've come to realize that this is an AU inside of an AU, and that's the most Me shit I could think of. If I ever write in a canon verse, someone call the police. I'm probably not well.
> 
> Also, I know that everything has been very, very Yuuri central so far, and the story doesn't focus on Viktor a lot, but I promise the next chapter will satisfy your Viktor needs. There will eventually be romance, but there's a lot of shit to weed through before we really get there.


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